


Communicating with Firetrucks

by fictionalaspect, sunsetmog



Series: Call it Home [2]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Age Play, Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-Split, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a note on the table that just says, gone to the store. coffee here -----> in thick black sharpie. Brendon’s left Spencer’s favorite mug next to the coffee machine, but Spencer’s too busy staring down at the note to pay proper attention to his coffee. At the bottom of the note, Brendon’s scrawled, love you <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Communicating with Firetrucks

**Author's Note:**

> Contains non-sexual ageplay. For more detailed warnings, please read the [updated FAQ](http://twotinydragons.livejournal.com/854.html#cutid2) on lj.
> 
> This is part one of the [Call it Home verse](http://twotinydragons.livejournal.com/), and takes place three months after the events detailed in the prologue (on AO3 or [here on lj](http://twotinydragons.livejournal.com/2971.html)). This story is complete in itself and can stand alone. Thank you to anoneknewmoose and misswonderheart for reading through an earlier draft version of this story and providing comments on the pacing, and to hermette for the lightning-fast beta! ♥

_2006_

It's 3:21 in the morning, and Spencer has lost the rest of his band.

"Shit," he mutters for the third time, staring down at his phone. His shopping basket is heavy, and the handle squeaks as he walks. Every single part of his body is sore; there's a stain on his sweatpants over his left knee, and he has no idea how it got there. He pauses for a moment in front of a mirror attached to an endcap. His hair is an ungodly mess, greasy and sticking to itself. He looks like he should be living out of a backpack, not getting back on his very first tour bus to play another show in another state for another crowd of full of people who are probably older than he is.

Spencer puts his still-silent phone back in his pocket, and keeps walking. He ends up staring blankly at the aisle full of toiletries in front of him. He already has shampoo. He isn't sure why he's back in the shampoo aisle. He isn't sure why he can't find the rest of his band, or even what they're doing here, beyond the fact that Ryan had dragged him out of bunk twenty minutes ago because they had finally driven past something close to civilization on the long stretch between Kansas and North Dakota. Civilization had turned out to be a 24-hour Super Walmart with a gas station, but Spencer will take what he can get.

He scrubs a hand over his face, grabs a bottle of conditioner, and then picks up his basket and resolves to make another pass. They have to be somewhere in this stupid warehouse of a store. No one's texted him, and no one is answering their phone, but Spencer is almost positive they wouldn't have left without him. 99 percent sure.

He stumbles back to the front of the store, resolving to try this the organized way, this time around. He starts near the entrance and walks blearily down each aisle, keeping an eye and an ear out for Zack's shoulders or Brendon's bed-head or Brent's ever-present cough. The store is mostly silent around him.

He's still coming up empty when he turns into the children's section, nearly walking into a row of candy-colored bikes. They have streamers on the handles. Spencer reaches out and fixes the closest one—it's all messed up now, falling strangely over the handlebars instead of dangling from the end—and then he remembers that he needs to focus and not be that crazy guy stroking a children's bike at three in the morning.

He looks up from the bike rack to see someone with dark, messy hair ducking into an aisle just ahead of him. He hurries forward, preparing to call out, but then he remembers that it might not _be_ Brendon, and harassing someone else's children while looking vaguely homeless is probably worse than petting a kid's bike. He slows his steps, peeking around the end cap of the aisle to assess the situation.

Brendon is crouched down in the middle of the aisle, his basket sitting on the scratched tile floor next to his feet. He's biting his lip and peering intently at something that Spencer can't see. He looks tired, his clothing just as much of a haphazard mess as Spencer's. In the glow of the fluorescent lights, he seems very small.

Brendon reaches out, brushing his fingers over the object, which turns out to be a box of race cars, when Spencer cranes his neck to see. Then Brendon draws his hand back, looking to the left and then the right, a vaguely guilty expression on his face. Spencer ducks quickly back behind the endcap. He stares across the aisle at a display of bike helmets and feels like a tool, but there's something about watching Brendon like this that feels—intimate, almost. Spencer has the strangest sensation that he's stumbled upon a secret, but for life of him he can't figure out what that secret _is._

Spencer counts six of his own inhalations, and then he sets his basket down carefully, peering around the corner so he can catch another glimpse. He watches as Brendon fumbles around in his shopping basket, pulling out socks and deodorant and toothpaste and other necessities, stacking them neatly on the floor. Once he's satisfied—with what, Spencer has no idea—he gives a little nod and then stands up, adjusting his glasses as he walks to the end of the aisle farthest from Spencer.

He picks up something; a book, from what Spencer can tell, and then a box from the shelf, small and yellow. Spencer watches with increasing confusion as he carefully places both in the bottom of his basket, piling the rest of his tour crap on top of it. He's hiding it, Spencer realizes. Whatever Brendon just picked up, it's something he doesn't want the rest of them to see. Spencer bites his lip. He's not sure he likes the idea of Brendon with any more secrets. Sometimes Spencer feels like his band is a ticking time bomb—there are too many soft places left unmarked, easy to bruise if you aren't paying attention.

When he's done, Brendon rocks on his heels for a moment, looking down at his basket with a soft, sad expression. Then he rolls his shoulders out, standing up from his crouch in one swift movement, tugging the basket up with him and walking out of the aisle towards Spencer.

Spencer fumbles for his shopping basket, tugging it backwards with him into the adjoining aisle, just around the corner. His heart races at the prospect of discovery, but Brendon's footsteps are traveling away from him, towards the center of the store. Spencer pauses, collecting himself, and then he hurries after Brendon. After all of that, he doesn't want to lose him again.

Brendon turns, registering the footsteps and the strange noise of Spencer's squeaky basket handle with a confused expression. He nods in recognition, smiling slightly once he realizes it's Spencer, and then yawning, long and loud. Spencer comes to a halt next to him. He opens his mouth to ask Brendon if he's ready to check out, and then _he_ 's yawning, because he can't help it.

"Fuck you," Spencer mumbles, once he's done, punching Brendon weakly in the shoulder. "Don't yawn around me, asshole. You know that always happens."

Brendon grins at him, tired but mischievous. "You ready to go?" Brendon says, nudging Spencer's basket with his thigh. "I'm done with this place. These lights are giving me a fucking headache."

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Definitely. Let's go find the others."

Brendon falls into step next to him as Spencer moves off, keeping pace as they wander through the sporting goods aisles.

"You get everything you need?" Spencer says, trying hard not to peer intently at Brendon's basket. He wants to know what's in there, dammit.

"Mostly," Brendon says. "I think I still need face wash. It's all that fucking makeup, man, I know Ryan says his special makeup remover shit doesn't make you break out, but my skin fucking sucks lately—" There's a cut on the outside of his lip, scabbed and half-healed. Spencer can't stop staring at it as Brendon rambles off his shopping list distractedly. It's becoming some kind of weird obsession lately, some bizarre fixation that Spencer needs to get over.

"Yeah," Spencer says, even though he's not listening.

"Right," Brendon says. "Anyway. Oh, there they are. Assholes. I texted them like eight times." He points down the long aisle leading towards the check-out lines. Spencer can see Ryan's skinny frame leaning up against a display of Triscuits, clad in overly large flannel pajama pants and texting someone intently. Zack is pacing next to him, talking hurriedly and quietly into his phone. Brent is still nowhere to be found.

"Race you," Brendon says suddenly. It's a straight shot across the store to Zack and Ryan, no employees in sight. "Lose a point for every item you drop."

"Oh, it's on," Spencer says, shaking his shoulders out. He ignores the tiredness in his limbs. Maybe if they race, Brendon can sneak to the check-out line while everyone else is distracted. Maybe that was his plan all along. Maybe Spencer is starting to have a Brendon-shaped problem, racing him to registers in the middle of the night just so he can help Brendon preserve his secrets.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Brendon's wide smile, the pull of the skin where his cut is starting to scar. "One," Brendon says, getting into take-off position. "Two—"

Spencer starts running.

 

 

_October 2009_

Spencer wakes up to the beginnings of a headache and a sore throat. He hides his face in the pillow for a minute, trying to clear the sleep from his head and the ache from his throat, but it doesn't work on either count. He gives in after a while, and blearily rolls over. There's a cold spot in the bed next to him, because on the days that Brendon isn't sleeping in until lunchtime, he's up early and actually doing shit.

Spencer is not good in the mornings, and he doesn't get how Brendon can just bound out of bed and start conversations like his tongue isn't thick in his mouth and his brain isn't all tangled up and back to front. This is why Spencer has a deep and intense love affair with his coffee machine. Or, Brendon's coffee machine. _Their_ coffee machine. Spencer hasn't slept on his air mattress since they came back from South Africa. His clothes have started to find their way into Brendon's closet and Brendon's dresser and okay, so they haven't talked about it yet, but the two of them are definitely living together in a sort of "couple with a future" kind of way.

It feels good, which is more than Spencer can say about his head right now.

"I feel crappy," he tells Bogart, who's curled up next to him, paws stretched out on the pillow. Bogart ignores him, and chews on his toy frog. "Yeah, I get it. You're not Lassie," Spencer says, burrowing under the covers for a moment, trying to warm up. He feels kind of shitty, hot and cold all at once. He had a few beers last night, but not enough to make him feel this ill in the morning; he groans, and pushes back the blankets. He shrugs his way into Brendon's new Blink-182 hoodie—the one he either stole from the Merch table or was given, depending on who you ask, but whatever, it's fucking comfortable either way—and stumbles out into the hallway and down the stairs to find Brendon.

There's a note on the table that just says, _gone to the store. coffee here————_ >in thick black sharpie. Brendon's left Spencer's favorite mug next to the coffee machine, but Spencer's too busy staring down at the note to pay proper attention to his coffee. At the bottom of the note, Brendon's scrawled, _love you <3_. The writing's messy and if he tilted his head to the side, Spencer's pretty sure he could make it look like something else, which he thinks was probably Brendon's intention, but Spencer knows what it says. He feels hot inside, his stomach flip-flopping.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks. He folds the note up and slides it into the pocket of his hoodie, before reaching for his coffee mug. He swallows a couple of Tylenol from the open tub on top of the microwave, and considers breakfast. He's not hungry, not really, but he hasn't eaten since dinner last night, and that's a whole lot of hours ago. Spencer is usually hungry. He can tell when he's sick because he doesn't actually want any food. He puts one of Brendon's pop tarts into the toaster, though, and swills his coffee around the bottom of his mug while he waits. It hurts to swallow and his head aches and he feels kind of sick.

Some breakfast and the Tylenol will kick in and he'll soon feel better.

—

Spencer wakes up to Brendon letting the front door shut loudly behind him, and the excited yapping of Bogart leaping off Spencer's legs and bounding into the hall to jump up at Brendon.

"Spence," Brendon yells, and Spencer groans, pulling his hood up and over his head.

"In here," Spencer says, and his voice sounds just about as croaky as he feels. He wraps his arms around himself, hands hidden inside his sleeves. He's really cold. Is it cold? Brendon's only in a t-shirt.

"Hey," Brendon says, coming over and pressing a kiss to Spencer's forehead. "I brought lunch." He makes a face, dropping to his knees by the side of the couch and dumping a Subway bag onto the coffee table. "Fuck, you're hot."

"Cold," Spencer corrects, shivering. He feels really sick, and the smell of the sandwiches isn't helping. He wonders if he's going to throw up.

"No, like, really fucking _hot_ , Spence," Brendon says, holding his hand to Spencer's forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"

Spencer debates lying. He shrugs a shoulder. "No," he says, finally. His stomach feels terrible. He hasn't finished either his coffee or his pop tart from breakfast yet. "Can we—can we put those in the kitchen?" He points at the sandwiches. "Somewhere that isn't here?"

"Fuck, sure," Brendon says, clambering to his feet. "I'll get the thermometer too, you're running hot, Spence."

"I'm always hot," Spencer says, trying to smile, but his stomach is rolling and his head aches and his throat hurts.

"Sure thing, baby," Brendon says, one hand on Spencer's chest. He leans in and kisses Spencer's cheek. "Back in a minute. I'll get you some water. Do you want anything else?"

Spencer shakes his head, and wonders how he got from feeling a little off-color to feeling like death warmed up in such a short space of time. He pulls his knees up to his chest and closes his eyes.

When Brendon comes back in, Spencer's half asleep again, trying to ignore the rolling nausea in his belly and the way his throat hurts and how it feels like he can't stop shivering.

"Spence," Brendon says, hand on his arm. "Open up."

Spencer can't even raise the enthusiasm for a dick joke. He can always find the energy for a dick joke. He makes a face, but obediently opens up for Brendon to stick the thermometer under his tongue.

"Hold that there," Brendon says, and he slides his hand into Spencer's. "Why didn't you call me and tell you were feeling ill? I would have come home."

"No," Spencer tries to say, around the thermometer. He tries to take the thermometer out, but Brendon just rolls his eyes and reaches for it.

"One hundred and two," Brendon says. "Fuck, you're sick, Spence. What are you doing out of bed?"

Spencer shrugs. He wants to say he hadn't felt as terrible as this a couple of hours ago, but right now he feels on the edge of throwing up and all he wants to do is hide under the covers until swallowing doesn't feel like someone's rubbing a cheese grater up and down his throat.

"Okay," Brendon says. "You need to get into bed, and then I need to go to the drug store, and then I need to go to the store and buy soup."

"I don't need any of that," Spencer protests, sitting up. He feels kind of dizzy, and he blinks for a moment. "Okay, so—maybe."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Come on," he says. "How do you feel about watching a movie in bed?"

Spencer feels a lot like that's the worst idea ever, but only because right now he'd like to throw up so he can feel better, and then hibernate until he's well again. "Sounds good," he says. "Do I get to pick?"

"Hmmm," Brendon says. "Maybe. But only because you're sick."

"You pick," Spencer says, and Brendon makes a face.

"Did aliens come over when I was out?" he asks.

Spencer tries to laugh. "I might just—go to sleep," he says.

"Okay," Brendon says, and he curls his hand around Spencer's waist. "Come on, up you go. I've got your water. I'll get you some pills when you're in bed and then you can go to sleep."

Spencer nods. He feels really shitty. "Thanks," he says, because Brendon's being pretty awesome about the fact that Spencer's about as much fun as a glum, sick thing right about now.

"Don't worry about it," Brendon says. "You're sick. I'm not going to leave you here to die, dude."

"Yeah," Spencer says. It's strange, because Brendon's not usually the first to step in when one of them is sick on tour. That's always been Zack's job, or more recently, Dallon, who maintains that having a kid has inured him to all snot-related issues as long as no one wipes it on him. Brendon's not bad at it when he needs to be, though. Spencer thinks it's probably thanks to his six million tiny Urie relations.

"Up, come on," Brendon says, helping Spencer stand up. Everything swims before his eyes when he stands, but Brendon's arm is steady around his waist. Making it upstairs is more a challenge than Spencer's ready to admit, but when he's finally lying in Brendon's bed he feels a little less like he's dying. Or, he still feels like he's dying, but at least he's someplace soft.

"Here," Brendon says, returning to the room with a glass of water. "Drink this, and then watch the pretty pictures on the fancy box thing, okay?"

"Shut up," Spencer grumbles, rolling on his side so he can mash his face into the pillow. This _sucks._ He hates being sick. "I remember what a TV is."

"Just checking," Brendon says. He picks up the remote, turning the TV on. "You still want me to pick?" Brendon says, and Spencer nods. "No explosions," Spencer says, because the space behind his eyes is throbbing. "Nothing loud."

"I feel like I'm talking to twilight zone Spencer," Brendon says, but he turns the channel to HGTV. "Here," Brendon says. "Look at the pretty houses and go to sleep."

"I hate you," Spencer says, and fumbles weakly for the remote. Brendon snorts at Spencer's sad attempts to grab it from him, and then hands it over. "Told you you wouldn't like what I picked," Brendon says.

"That's because you picked something stupid on purpose," Spencer says. He flips around until he catches a glimpse of a familiar 1980's green-screened spaceship, and then he smiles, even though it hurts.

"Awesome," Spencer mumbles, dropping the remote on the bed. When he turns his head, Brendon is giving him an odd look.

"You want to watch a kids movie?" Brendon says, frowning in confusion.

"Don't tell me you've never seen this," Spencer says, settling deeper under the covers. "I fucking love this movie."

"I do too," Brendon says. "I just—okay." His expression is guarded, giving nothing away. Spencer wants to ask Brendon about it—if Brendon has some childhood Flight of the Navigator trauma because that is information Spencer needs to know—but everything hurts, and his eyes are already falling shut.

When he wakes up, Flight of the Navigator is still on the TV, and Brendon's sitting on the bed next to him, watching it.

"Mrgh," Spencer says, eloquently, and Brendon looks away from the TV screen. He looks a little guilty, which is weird, but Spencer feels kind of shitty and not much like he can dedicate any of the energy he doesn't have to finding out why Brendon's behaving oddly.

"How are you feeling?" Brendon asks, and he's blushing.

"Like death," Spencer says, because his throat hurts and his head ache and he feels sick and he's cold and hot all at the same time.

Brendon leans over and presses his palm to Spencer's forehead. "You're still hot," he says. "I should go to the drugstore."

"Yeah," Spencer says, and he curls into Brendon's side, hiding his face in Brendon's shirt. "Don't feel well," he says, and Brendon ducks down and kisses the top of Spencer's head.

"I know," he says. "I'll go pick up some stuff for you now. You'll feel better then."

Spencer doesn't move away. "I always wanted to be the kid in this movie," he says, because it's better than thinking about how he's feeling.

"Really?" Brendon says, reaching for his wallet on the nightstand. "Me too."

"I want to travel in time," Spencer goes on. "I'd go someplace I wasn't feeling like this."

"I know," Brendon says, and he curls his fingers into Spencer's, just for a moment. He glances at the screen. "I won't be long."

"Okay," Spencer says, even though he doesn't want Brendon to leave. He wants to stay like this until he stops feeling so awful.

"Seriously, ten minutes and I'll be back," Brendon says, leaning down to kiss Spencer's forehead. "You'll survive."

"I want hugs," Spencer mumbles, because, well. Because he's sick and he wants hugs, dammit. He knows he's acting like a little kid, but there's only about ten percent of his brain that cares. He's always been kind of whiny when he's sick. Brendon should be used to this by now.

"You can have a hug when I come back," Brendon says, looking away. "I promise."

"Dammit," Spencer mumbles.

Brendon's gone for more like twenty minutes, but Spencer tries not to look at Brendon's alarm clock more than once every couple of minutes. He huddles under the blankets instead, and tries to concentrate on the end of the movie. The titles have just rolled when Brendon comes back in, complete with paper bag from the drugstore.

"We should get that on DVD," Spencer says, surfacing from under the covers. "I want to watch it again when I don't want to die."

"You're a giant wimp when you're sick, Spence," Brendon says, but he uncaps the gatorade and leaves it on the nightstand while Spencer tries to sit up. "Here," he says, taking out a box of Dayquil. "Take these, you'll feel better."

"Can't feel worse," Spencer grumbles, but he curls into Brendon's side as Brendon kicks off his shoes and makes a space for himself on the bed next to him.

"I got you cough drops too," Brendon says. "Honey and lemon flavor. They'll make your throat feel better."

"Awesome," Spencer says, curling up so that his head's resting against Brendon's chest. "Short Circuit's on next."

There's a pause before Brendon says anything. "You want to watch it?" he asks.

"Yes," Spencer says. "I love that movie."

"Okay," Brendon says, and slides his arm around Spencer's shoulder.

—

"I am so sick of this," Spencer says miserably, three days into his apparent plague of death with extra death on the side. "Can we just kill me now and get it over with?"

"You have the flu," Brendon tells him, stroking Spencer's head where it's pillowed on Brendon's thigh. "The doctor said so. You're not dying."

"Feels like dying," Spencer says. He still has a fever, although Brendon's been feeding him Tylenol every four hours like clockwork to keep it at a manageable level. He's sick and achey and he smells disgusting. He wants to crawl into a hole and never come out again.

"I feel like I'm getting worse," Spencer says, instead of yet another litany of complaints about how much he hates everything in the world except Brendon. "Like, I actually feel worse than I did yesterday."

"That happens," Brendon says sympathetically. "I can't believe you never got the flu as a kid, dude. You just have to wait it out. You'll probably start feeling better tomorrow."

"Tomorrow isn't now," Spencer says, rolling over so he can press his face into Brendon's thigh. Brendon's just as warm as he is, but at least his pajama pants are soft and familiar-smelling.

"Yeah," Brendon says quietly. He cards his fingers through Spencer's hair again, brushing the sweaty strands away from Spencer's face. The TV in the living room is silent, playing through the loading screen loop of the original Matrix over and over.

"Do you think—" Brendon says, and then he falls silent. His thigh is suddenly tense under Spencer's head, and Spencer rolls over blearily so he can look up at Brendon. "Huh?" Spencer says, because he's almost certain he didn't just hallucinate Brendon starting to say something.

"Nothing," Brendon says. There's a faint smear of red along the tops of his cheekbones, flushing darker as he refuses to meet Spencer's eyes. "It's nothing. I just had a dumb idea, that's all."

"Is it any dumber than me lying here and complaining all afternoon?"

"Uh," Brendon says, and then seems to take a moment to seriously think about it. "Not really."

"Okay," Spencer says, yawning and then wincing at the surprise pain that the yawn engenders. Seriously, his everything aches. "What is it? Is it going to require me moving?"

"I thought maybe you might want me to run you a bath?" Brendon says, ending the sentence as a question. "Um. When I'm sick—or when I _was_ sick, when I was little, my mom always used to run me one and it always made me feel better." Brendon pauses. "Also you kind of smell," he tells Spencer apologetically. "Like, you're approaching tour smell, dude."

"Baths are hot," Spencer says, even though the thought of getting clean does sound nice. "I'm already hot. What if I boil up and die?"

"I can make it lukewarm," Brendon says. He's still blushing. "Or you can just take a shower, um, whichever. That's fine too. But I think being clean would make you feel better. And while you're doing it, um, I can put fresh sheets on the bed?"

"I don't want to move," Spencer complains, half-heartedly.

"Okay," Brendon says. "It was a dumb idea." His cheeks are a little pink.

"No," Spencer says. "I mean, I want one. I just. I don't have the energy to wash. Maybe if I just sit in the tub I'll come out smelling better just by osmosis. That's a possibility, right?"

"I guess," Brendon says. There's a pause, and he runs his fingers through Spencer's hair. Spencer likes the way it feels when Brendon's petting him, so he presses into his touch, a plague-ridden request for Brendon not to stop. "I mean. I could, uh. I could help. I could maybe wash your hair for you. It's pretty, uh. I'm just saying. We've had cleaner tours."

"Tours are gross," Spencer says, trying not to think about how nice it might feel for someone to wash his hair for him.

"They are," Brendon agrees.

"Didn't you help me wash my hair once when we were like eighteen?" Spencer says, a memory suddenly returning unbidden of the three of them standing around a gas station bathroom sink, shirtless, with Brendon dunking his and Ryan's heads in the sink in turn and then scooping up more water to rinse with an old, cut-in-half bottle of no-name brand water.

"Couple times," Brendon says, starting to smile softly at Spencer again. "You guys were disgusting, I couldn't help it."

"That was nice," Spencer says vaguely. He doesn't remember much about the actual hair-washing part of it, only that it felt nice and he'd been really tired and Brendon's hands were gentler on his scalp than they had seemed to be when he was watching Ryan go through the same process. He wonders if maybe that was on purpose.

"Then we'll do it again," Brendon says. He stands up, gently dislodging Spencer. "Stay here," Brendon says, as Spencer flails around a bit trying to get up while using the least possible amount of effort. "I'll come get you when it's ready."

"Okay," Spencer says, sinking back into the couch and yawning again. "Good."

It's five minutes before Brendon comes back, t-shirt already damp across the hem.

"I'm sick, B," Spencer says, miserably. He's really fucking tired of feeling this shitty. He hates that getting to the bathroom right now to get clean seems like too big a thing for him to manage. In the last few days he's mostly managed either the bed or memorably, this morning, the couch. He misses his bed. He's spent a lot of time slowly turning the sheets into tour levels of fetid and gross, watching endless movies and bad TV in between sleeping seventy-five percent of the time. He misses getting to kiss Brendon whenever he wants to, and he misses wanting someone to touch his dick. "Sick, sick, sick."

"I know, baby," Brendon says, rolling his eyes. "You smell like you've died. Come on. The bath's ready. I'll wash your hair and then I'll change the sheets and it won't smell so much like a horror movie when you come back to bed."

"Don't want to, "Spencer complains, but he lets Brendon pull the blankets off the couch and hold his hand while he sits up and spends a minute getting a little less dizzy. "Want to go back to bed."

"After you've had your bath," Brendon says, curling his hand a little more comfortably into Spencer's. "You ready to try the stairs yet?"

"Sure," Spencer lies, since his legs feel shaky and his head feels muffled and he's still kind of dizzy whenever he moves his head too much. Forcing Brendon to let him get out of bed this morning might have been a mistake.

Brendon rolls his eyes again. "We're going to work on you telling me the truth about whether you can stand up by yourself or not," he says, sliding his arm around Spencer's back. Spencer doesn't want to tell him how relieved he is to have something to lean against as they try for the stairs. "Come on, bathtime."

The bath water is just the right side of lukewarm, and Spencer shakily shrugs off his pajamas and sits down in the bath as Brendon dumps Spencer's dirty clothes in the laundry and kisses his forehead.

"Sit there for a minute," Brendon tells him. "I'm going to finish changing the sheets and then come in here and wash your hair. Just relax."

Spencer nods, and draws his knees up to his chin, resting his cheek against his knee. The water smells like—flowers, Spencer thinks. No, not flowers. _Candy_. There's a bottle of relaxing bath essence by the taps, but the writing's too small for Spencer to make out what it's supposed to smell of. It's a new bottle, anyway, that much is clear. He gives up trying to figure out what goes on in Brendon's head in favor of just sitting in the bath.

"Okay," Brendon announces, a few minutes later, coming into the bathroom with a pile of sheets and shoving them unceremoniously in the laundry hamper. "Let it never be said I don't like you, dude. Those sheets smell fucking disgusting."

"So you keep reminding me," Spencer says glumly.

"Sometimes love hurts," Brendon says, toeing off his flip-flops and stepping out of his pajamas pants, leaving them in a puddle on the floor. _You said_ _'_ _love,_ _'_ Spencer thinks, but he's too tired to follow that train of thought to its eventual conclusion, to spend yet another hour contemplating what the hell he and Brendon have been doing for the past three months and whether or not Brendon loves Spencer as much as Spencer is stupidly, desperately in love with Brendon.

"Move over just a little," Brendon says, climbing into the bath, splashing around until he gets himself situated behind Spencer. He's half-hard against Spencer's back, and Spencer knows if he turned around Brendon's dick would be all pink and flushed and happy and it is a sad, sad state of events where Spencer is too tired to do anything about that.

"I want my libido back," Spencer says, leaning back against Brendon and sighing. "I want to play with your dick right now, what the fuck."

"No you don't," Brendon says, reaching for the shampoo. "You can barely stand up."

"In my head," Spencer says. "In my head, I want to play with your dick. I just—" He tries to get up the energy to move, and ends up flopping one arm against the side of the tub.

"In my head, I'm grateful," Brendon says, and he sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "But my actual dick will survive you not touching it for a while."

"Okay," Spencer says, still glum. "Do you think if I concentrate really hard on it, I can get you off with my mind?"

"I think my dick is doing fine on its own," Brendon says, and there's something off about his voice, something cautious and almost embarrassed. Spencer squirms back a little more and yeah, Brendon is definitely hard. Huh.

"I didn't know you liked baths so much," Spencer cracks, or tries to crack. It comes out half-hearted, and he coughs at the end, which kind of ruins the impact.

"I like the part of it where we're naked, duh," Brendon says, almost too quickly. "But let's stop talking about my dick, okay?"

"I like your dick," Spencer says, coughing again.

"I know," Brendon says. "And you're a real turn on when you're ninety-eight percent snot."

Spencer tries to laugh, but his chest hurts and he leans back against Brendon, too tired to even want to wriggle back against Brendon's dick. He closes his eyes instead. "Tired," he says.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "This won't take long." Spencer hears the plastic flick of the shampoo bottle lid, and then Brendon says, "Mind your eyes," because he's got his Simpsons beer mug and he's dipping it into the bathwater and pouring it over Spencer's head. He does it again, and then Brendon squeezes the shampoo bottle onto his palm, massaging it into Spencer's hair. Spencer lets out a soft whine, because Brendon's fingertips against his scalp feel kind of amazing. It's the first touch in days that Spencer's actively welcomed, and he curls back into it, wanting more. "This won't take long," Brendon tells him, a little awkwardly, and Spencer nods, letting Brendon run his fingers through his hair.

"I think it should take _forever,_ " Spencer mumbles. Brendon's fingers are massaging little patterns into his scalp, scratching and rubbing, and it's the most intensely pleasurable sensation he's felt in at least seventy-two hours.

"We'd get all wrinkly," Brendon says, his voice a little softer now that he's essentially cradling Spencer against his chest.

"Don't care," Spencer says. He keeps his eyes closed until Brendon tells him he can open them, after Brendon's dipped mug after mug into the bath water and then carefully poured them over Spencer's head.

"Better?" Brendon says softly, when he sees that Spencer's eyes are open.

"Conditioner?" Spencer says hopefully, because damn, he really doesn't want this to be over so soon.

"Yup," Brendon says, reaching for the bottle and accidentally dislodging Spencer in the process. Spencer lets out a disappointed noise, and curls back in after Brendon's reseated himself. After days of feeling like a stranger in his own body, this is the first time he can remember wanting something other than his bed and more sleep and to feel less like he was dying of the plague.

"Good," Spencer says, and he settles himself back against Brendon's chest, letting Brendon's fingers massage conditioner into his hair. He lets out a disappointed whine when Brendon takes his hands away, and Brendon huffs a laugh.

"You like that, huh?" he asks, and Spencer would be embarrassed about how he's essentially curled up in Brendon's lap in the bathtub, letting Brendon wash his hair for him, but he can't find it in himself to work up the energy. He's sick and Brendon's looking after him and he doesn't want to think about anything other than how nice it feels to have Brendon near him like this.

"Uh-huh," Spencer says, sleepily. The warm water has eased his sore throat a little, and he rubs his cheek against Brendon's skin.

"You need to shave," Brendon says. "But we can figure that out in the morning. Let me just -" he reaches for the clean face cloth he's left folded up on the edge of the sink, and then he's squeezing shower gel on to it with a loud squelch, and slowly washing Spencer's chest and arms. "Two more minutes, Spence," he says, and he drops a kiss to the curve of Spencer's shoulder. "Two minutes and then we'll get you out of here and into bed and you can go to sleep."

"Tylenol," Spencer protests, since he's grown very attached to his steady drip of flu meds over the past few days.

"Tylenol," Brendon agrees. "And more Gatorade."

"Never drinking that stuff again," Spencer says, because it tastes like feet. Everything tastes like feet at the moment, but Gatorade seems to have a particularly feet-y type of feet taste that he can't get rid of.

"You kind of have to," Brendon says. "Unless you're planning on staying awake to eat more."

"I can totally stay awake," Spencer mumbles, even if he's privately certain that he's going to pass out as soon as his head hits his pillow.

"Sure you can," Brendon says, using the mug to pour more water over Spencer's chest, rinsing him off until he's clean. "Okay," Brendon says. "Up, before you fall asleep in the tub and drown yourself."

"Hmmph," Spencer says, but he manages to force himself upright, although his head spins at first.

"Come on," Brendon says gently, and when Spencer looks he's holding out a towel, one of their big soft ones that Spencer has expressly forbid Brendon from taking to the beach so it will stay nice and soft and not covered in sand. Spencer reaches out a hand and Brendon pulls him up, draping the towel over his shoulders.

"Okay," Spencer mumbles, yawning and stepping out of the bath. "Cool. I'm dry. Let's go to bed."

"Don't—you dumbass," Brendon says fondly, with a hint of exasperation. "You're dripping wet."

"Bed," Spencer points out. "It will soak up the water."

"Just let me dry you off, you're going to give yourself pneumonia," Brendon says, his cheeks pinking. He's pulling the towel off Spencer's shoulders and wiping him down carefully, shoulders to hips to feet, and Spencer has to admit that it's just—it's nice. This whole being-taken-care-of thing is nice, even if he feels like death, because his chest feels warm and soft and Brendon is practically petting him through the towel and he feels less like death than he did an hour ago.

"That's my dick," Spencer says sadly, when he looks down to see that Brendon is drying his thighs off as the last part of his ministrations. "It's so broken."

"It's fine," Brendon says, rolling his eyes and pressing a kiss to Spencer's hipbone. "I hear these things bounce back pretty quickly."

"Hah," Spencer says, because he thinks Brendon just made a joke, but he's not really sure because his head has started swimming again and everything's a little fuzzier than it was a few moments ago.

"Come on, I'll do your hair in bed," Brendon says, tugging on Spencer's hand and leading him into the bedroom. "You need to lie down, you're getting all weird and pale again."

"Yeah," Spencer manages, crawling into bed when Brendon pulls the covers down. The sheets are cool and soft and _clean_ against his skin, and Spencer sighs happily at the difference. Fuck, he loves Brendon. Brendon is so good to him. Spencer doesn't even remotely deserve a Brendon in his life.

"Just go to sleep," Brendon whispers, curling in next to Spencer and tucking the towel around Spencer's wet hair for a moment, just enough to rumple it around gently and pull some of the moisture from Spencer's hair.

"Uh-huh," Spencer mumbles. He flails a hand out, managing to catch Brendon's wrist as Brendon's pulling the towel back. "Love you," Spencer mutters sleepily, and he feels Brendon still for a moment, a sharp pause and then a sudden flurry of motion, Brendon tossing the towel away and curling in close.

"Yeah?" Brendon says softly, and Spencer wants to reply, wants to say _yes, everything, I love you, you_ _'_ _re everything, you bought me goddamn Gatorade and washed my hair and I love you, you didn_ _'_ _t have to do this_ , but he can't. He's too exhausted. The words won't come.

"Yeah," Spencer breathes, squeezing the nearest part of Brendon before he gives up and slips back into sleep. "Always."

—

Spencer's at that point in the recovery process where he's not exactly ill anymore, but neither is he completely better. What he is, however, is bored. "I'm sick," he complains, because he's watched everything on TV that's ever been made and exhausted their entire DVD collection, or so it seems. He pokes Brendon in the thigh with the tip of his finger. "And dehydrated."

"You haven't been sick for a whole week," Brendon says, not looking up from his magazine. He slaps Spencer's hand away, and Spencer makes a face. "You can get up and get yourself a drink. And bring one for me."

Spencer yawns, jaw cracking. He rolls his shoulders. "I'm tired," he says. "If I ask you nicely, will you bring me tea?"

"No," Brendon says. He flips the page in his magazine. It isn't even an interesting magazine, it's the supplement from the Sunday newspaper that Brendon had brought home for precisely no reason at all, since neither of them were actually newspaper readers. Spencer isn't going to fight him for the magazine that came free with the newspaper. "If you're going to the kitchen, do you want to bring the Doritos back with you?"

Spencer groans. He's still not feeling on top form again, but at least he's up and about and not feeling dizzy every time he moves his head. Fuck, having flu was awful. He can't ever remember feeling that shitty before. He's pretty sure he's driven Brendon crazy, though, cooped up with Spencer being sick and flu-ey and gross for day after day after day. Spencer yawns again, and peers out the window. It's sunny outside, which Spencer feels is worthy of pointing out since California's weather is so changeable and everything, and Spencer suddenly feels the urge to get outside and in the warmth. "You want to go to the park?" he asks. "Take Bogart?"

Brendon shrugs. "I guess," he says, and drops the magazine down onto the crowded coffee table. "Bogart," he calls. "Park. _Park_. Walk!" Bogart skitters down the hallway, clearing the mess of old coffee mugs and cereal bowls and magazines with practiced ease. "Are you sure you're up to this?" Brendon asks, narrowing his eyes at Spencer as Bogart jumps up at him, excited. "Is this going to be like the, _I can get to the bathroom, no I don_ _'_ _t need your help_ trauma?"

"I was sick," Spencer says, blushing. "It wasn't my fault I couldn't stand up."

"Don't fucking faint on me ever again, okay?" Brendon says, severely. He scritches Bogart in between the ears, and slides a hand around his belly, lifting him up. "You are no rescue dog, are you, baby? You can't drag Spencer back to the car if he falls the fuck over in the park, can you?"

"I won't fall over," Spencer protests. "I'll sit down a lot. Take rests."

"Hmmm," Brendon says. "I'll grab some Gatorade before we go."

"Never drinking that again," Spencer complains, standing up. "Never, ever again."

"You know," Brendon says, "you are the worst fucking patient in the whole world."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, and he tucks his fingers into the elastic of Brendon's waistband. "Hey," he says. "I think my dick isn't broken anymore."

"You say the most charming things," Brendon says, but he's grinning. "You want to put it to the test later on?"

"I'll lie back and think of England," Spencer says. "Take it easy, you know. Let you do all the work."

Brendon just rolls his eyes. "Come on, Bogart," he says. "Let's go play in the park."

—

The park is quiet for the time of day, and Spencer finds a spot by the trees where he can stretch out on the grass with his hands behind his head while Brendon plays catch with Bogart. He closes his eyes and lets the sun seep into his skin. They've been surfing a lot since they moved to California, but they missed most of the summer on tour with Blink and since he's been sick Spencer's barely been out of the house. He misses the way the salt feels in his hair and the board feels beneath his feet and the way Brendon laughs and kisses him and tastes like the ocean.

Spencer's missed a lot of things since he's been sick. He cracks an eye open so that he can see Brendon chasing his dog across the grass, darting out of the way so that Bogart goes crazy and runs around Brendon's feet like a mad thing. Spencer grins and tries to pretend like he's not checking out Brendon's ass as he bends over, teasing Bogart with the Frisbee like they're not going to pay for this for the rest of the afternoon with one overexcited dog. Spencer doesn't exactly care all that much, though; Brendon really fucking loves that dog, and Spencer's happy just to see Brendon laugh. Brendon's been stressed out and tense all week, and Spencer's pretty sure that it's because he's been trying to write. For a couple of days he'd thought that Brendon might be coming down with the same flu that Spencer had, but Spencer's seen Brendon's dog-eared notebook peeking out from under the coffee table, and anyway, Spencer's known Brendon a long time. He knows him.

It's not that Spencer doesn't believe in Brendon's ability to write, because he _does_ , but it's hard. This part of the transition from being the four of them to being the two of them is tough, and Spencer hasn't figured out how he can help yet. It doesn't help that he's still not feeling on top form. He's feeling more alive than he has been for about three weeks though, warm and alert and _happy_. It's a good feeling, and it's good getting to watch Brendon's shoulders start to drop, the tension melting out of his spine as he plays with his dog. Spencer can't help but smile.

It's a while before Brendon flops down beside him, sweaty and laughing. Spencer's only half-awake, lazily reveling in the way the sunshine's seeping under his clothes and into his skin. For the first time he feels like a human being again, like _him_ and not like a flu-ey stranger.

"Hey," Brendon says, with a grin. He leans over and kisses the corner of Spencer's mouth, quick and hot. They don't do a lot of that kind of touching in public, and something curls in Spencer's stomach as he meets Brendon's gaze.

"Hey," Spencer says, smile curving into a grin. "You have fun?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, and he drops back down onto the grass, head resting on Spencer's shoulder.

Bogart scampers around them, barking at the shadows, chewing an old tennis ball that Spencer keeps trying to lose in the trash and Brendon keeps retrieving. They make enough to buy Bogart a new tennis ball, one that isn't ninety-seven percent dog drool, but Brendon insists that Bogart is resistant to change. _Brendon_ is resistant to change, Spencer thinks, and he tries not to think too much about the fact that they're expected to come up with something brilliant, just the two of them. He looks over at Brendon out of the corner of his eye and he wants to say something like, _it_ _'_ _s been a while since I_ _'_ _ve seen you this happy_ , but he holds his tongue. He knows if he says something like that Brendon will just freeze up again; he doesn't like to have his faults pointed out. Even if it's perfectly fucking reasonable for Brendon to be stressed out and weird right now, Spencer knows he'll still think of it as a character flaw, as something he needs to hide away or fix.

"What do you want for dinner?" Spencer says, instead of everything that he's thinking about.

Brendon opens his eyes, blinking at Spencer in confusion. "What?" he says. "It's like 3:30. You're already thinking about dinner?"

"I like dinner," Spencer points out. "I enjoy thinking about it when I'm not having it. It's like culinary foreplay."

"I'll show you culinary foreplay," Brendon mutters, poking Spencer in the side lazily.

"Hot," Spencer says. "Seriously though, what do you want?"

"Macaroni and cheese," Brendon says, and Spencer pauses because that's—not what he was expecting Brendon to say, that's for sure.

"Really?" Spencer says. "Okay."

"And, um, hot dogs," Brendon says. "Cut up in the mac and cheese. It's—Spencer, what? You _asked_ me what I wanted," Brendon says, a little defensively. He's biting his lip and looking away from Spencer.

"No, it's—it's totally fine," Spencer says. "I was just. That's not what I expected you to say, that's all. But we can totally make macaroni and cheese. I'm down with that."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Thanks." He's still a little tense next to Spencer's shoulder, so Spencer rolls over, pressing a kiss to Brendon's forehead before Brendon can dart away.

"We'll go right now and buy you all of the macaroni and cheese in the world," Spencer says. "It's going to be awesome. You want the Kraft stuff that's all radioactive orange? The Velveeta stuff?" Spencer pauses. "Actually, either way we should get the Velveeta stuff. I haven't had that since I was a kid. That stuff is like a heart attack in a box, but it's still fucking amazing."

"That one's my favorite, too," Brendon says, Spencer thinks to himself that there's still something a little off about Brendon's body language; he's hesitant, holding himself very still and acting almost—shy?

"Good," Spencer says. "What kind of hot dogs?"

"Uh, the good kind?" Brendon says, and he cracks a small smile. "The kind we always buy."

"Okay," Spencer says. He's actually kind of weirdly excited for dinner now. He definitely hasn't had macaroni and cheese with hot dogs since he was like, ten. He fumbles around in his pocket until he pulls out a gas receipt and a Bic pen that's missing its cap. "Anything else?"

"Uh," Brendon says. "Capri sun?"

"That shit's going to give you brain cancer," Spencer tells him, and then he writes it down at the bottom of the list. He stares at it for a moment and then he adds "chips," "beer," "sandwich stuff" and "soda."

"Probably," Brendon says. He's digging the toe of his sneaker into the grass.

"You ready to go?" Spencer says, folding the list and shoving it back in his pocket as he stands up. "Or you want to hang out here with Bogart some more?"

"I'm ready," Brendon says, and when he looks up at Spencer from his perch on the grass Spencer's struck by how _young_ Brendon looks right now, here in the shade of the trees. There's something entirely transparent about his expression, something soft and sad and hopeful.

Spencer opens his mouth to say something—to ask, maybe, although he's not sure he even knows what he would say—and then he watches as Brendon looks away, closing himself down again. He shakes himself a little, like he's shaking off a memory, and then he stands up, the same Brendon Spencer's always known.

"Are you okay?" Spencer says, because that was definitely a little odd.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "I'm fine. Did you put beer on the list?"

"Yeah," Spencer says.

"Awesome," Brendon says, bumping his shoulder against Spencer's as they turn and head towards the car, Bogart yapping excitedly around their feet.

—

"Did you want to try and do some more songwriting stuff?" Spencer says later that evening, as they're putting away the leftovers and dumping the dirty dishes into the sink. They'd made the macaroni and cheese, way too much for either of them, and Brendon had been laughing and smiling and generally pretty upbeat, so Spencer had thought it was maybe safe to stop tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. _Apparently not_ , he thinks to himself, as he watches the way Brendon's back suddenly goes stiff.

Brendon sighs, shoving the bowl full of mac and cheese on to the top shelf in the fridge. "Not really," Brendon says. "But I guess we have to."

"It doesn't have to be a big thing," Spencer says. "We can like, smoke and play Scrabble and write down the words that come to mind. It doesn't have to be anything but brainstorming."

"Yeah," Brendon says quietly. Then he shakes his head, looking up at Spencer. "I'm—thanks, but no thanks," Brendon says firmly. "I need to figure this stuff out on my own. I can't just lean on you for help all the time."

Spencer sighs. "Who said that to you?" Spencer says, because if there's one thing he can recognize, it's a patented 'I am going to subtly fuck with you until you do what I want' Ryan Ross quote.

Brendon grimaces. "Who do you think?" Brendon says. "But he's right. It's true. He's the one who can just walk away and come back with a whole song, ready to go, and I always—I never—"

"Stop comparing yourself to him," Spencer says, swallowing back the fear that's beginning to rise in his throat, the taste of bile. He hates fighting with Brendon like this. He hates watching Brendon make himself smaller and smaller, as though Ryan's presence is slowly permeating the room. "You're different people. You have different talents. So what, if he can write songs that way. They're not always _good_ songs," Spencer says. "You and I both know that."

"But a lot of them are," Brendon says, refusing to take the bait. His tone of voice is sharp and brittle. "And they've got, what, a whole album of those good songs, ready to go, and we've got fifty demos and no fucking lyrics because everything I write is shit, and I just—"

"Brendon," Spencer says, taking a step towards him. "Whoa, stop."

"Can you just," Brendon says, stepping away from Spencer and letting the fridge door slam. "Can we just. Can we just not talk about this right now?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, ignoring the voice in his head that's saying _okay, but you say that every time, and when **are** we going to talk about it?_ "That's fine," Spencer says. "We can just relax tonight."

"Yeah," Brendon says, and he's walking away from Spencer, toeing his flip-flops on in the hallway. Spencer watches him, suddenly feeling cold all over.

"Where are you going?" Spencer says.

"Out," Brendon says. He sounds tired. "I just need to be alone for a while. It's not—it's not you."

"No, don't—" _Don_ _'_ _t leave me_ , Spencer thinks wildly, even though he heard what Brendon just said about it not being about Spencer perfectly clearly. "I'll go," Spencer says. "You stay here. If you want." He doesn't know how to explain it, but there's something easier about leaving Brendon here so he can have some space than watching Brendon walk out the door like he's walking out on Spencer.

Brendon pauses, second foot still sliding into his flip-flop. "You sure?" he says hesitantly. "I'm just. I'm in a bad fucking mood right now, and I don't want to take it out on you."

"It's fine," Spencer says. "It's not a big deal, I'll go catch a movie or something."

"Okay," Brendon says.

"Okay," Spencer agrees, and he grabs his wallet from the countertop and hesitates about whether to lean in and kiss Brendon on the way past. Judging by the way Brendon's holding himself, closed-off and tense and frustrated, it wouldn't go down well, so he settles for touching Brendon's elbow as he walks out the door.

Brendon doesn't pull away, but he doesn't acknowledge it either, and Spencer's left feeling caught-up and weird as he fumbles with his car keys on the way out of their house.

His options at the movie theater are Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, G-Force, and some movie he's never heard of before which looks like the worst thing in the universe. He can't go see Harry Potter without Brendon because he isn't actually the worst boyfriend in the world, no matter how pissed and frustrated and _worried_ he is about whether their band has any future at all now it's just the two of them.

He ends up seeing G-Force, and sitting at the back of the movie theater with a monster bag of popcorn and a large Coke, which probably makes him look kind of like a weirdo. He saves half the popcorn for Brendon, because Brendon likes popcorn best when it's a little softer and kind of stale, and he sits there right up until the end of the closing titles and the lights come back up. There are two guys in matching red movie theater shirts giving him the evil eye, but Spencer doesn't move until the very last second of the movie is over. He's paid for this seat, he's going to see it through, so he saves up his very best smile for them on the way out of the theater.

And then he sits in his car in the parking lot for twenty minutes deleting old photos off his cell phone until Brendon calls him.

"Are you coming home?" Brendon asks.

"Yeah," Spencer says. He doesn't say, _how are you doing?_ because Brendon is fragile enough at the moment without Spencer interrogating him all the damn time. They've got to talk sometime, but now probably isn't the best choice for a conversation that's going to sting. The band splitting is both the hardest and the easiest thing Spencer's ever done in his whole life. If Spencer's conflicted as fuck then he knows Brendon's feeling even worse; Brendon's ability to feel guilty is big enough for the both of them. "I just saw a movie about guinea pigs," he says, and laughs.

"Wow," Brendon says. "That's a kids movie. Wasn't there anything else on?" He sounds kind of odd, but Spencer just puts it down to the fact that everything's fucking weird at the moment. Now that Spencer's done dying of the death plague they're actually going to have to face up to the fact that everything's changed, and not just the two of them and their relationship, but _everything_.

"Harry Potter," Spencer says. "But I kind of wanted to see that with you, so I saw G-Force instead."

There's a pause. "Was it good?" Brendon asks.

"So-so," Spencer says. He didn't really pay that much attention to it, but it was better than sitting in his car all evening and trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong with the band. In some ways he was glad he'd had the mutant death plague for so long, since it had meant he hadn't had to continually go over the breakdown of his band, over and over and over. He was pretty sure that was all Brendon had thought about since the announcement. "You want to come on a date with me to see Harry Potter?"

"Only if we can go for pizza first," Brendon says. "I don't put out for just any old movie date, you know."

"Well," Spencer says, "obviously."

There's a long pause. "Sorry," Brendon says, after a while.

"Don't worry about it," Spencer says, although there's a giant flashing neon light over the two of them that says _you have to talk about this._ "We're going to need to talk at some point, though."

"So long as you're not breaking up with me," Brendon says, lightly. "You're not, right?"

Spencer very carefully does not say, _never, ever, ever_ , which is what he actually feels. "No," he says. "That's like, a definite no."

"Good," Brendon says, letting out a breath all in a rush. "Let's just—let's not talk tonight, okay? Let's just leave it a while."

They can't keep leaving it, Spencer knows. "Okay," he says, because he can hear the unsteady edge to Brendon's voice, the waver underneath his words. "I'll be home in twenty minutes, okay?"

"Okay," Brendon says, and hangs up.

—

"You got changed," Spencer says, dumping his keys on the side table and dropping the remains of the bag of popcorn into Brendon's lap.

Brendon looks down, and for some reason flushes red. "I, oh -" he says. His shirt is a faded green, with Kermit the Frog on the front. Spencer's not sure he's seen it before. "Is that new?"

"Had it for years," Brendon says. "I, uh. Bogart drooled on my other one."

"Bogart," Spencer says, severely. "You are a giant ball of slobber." Bogart yips his agreement, and Spencer scratches him between the ears.

"I'm really tired," Brendon says, all of a sudden. "I'm going to go to bed."

"Brendon -" Spencer says, but Brendon shakes his head.

"I'm fine," Brendon says. "I really am. I just—Today has totally fucking sucked, okay? Or, well. Most of it has. A lot of it has. I just want to go to bed and wake up and have it be tomorrow. We can figure everything out tomorrow."

"Brendon," Spencer says helplessly. He doesn't know what to do, but he doesn't want Brendon to go to bed in the mood he's in now. He hates seeing Brendon like this, and he feels powerless to help ease it—especially if they're not going to talk about anything.

"I love you, okay?" Brendon says, not meeting Spencer's eyes. He clenches his fists, one after the other. "I really fucking love you."

"Yeah," Spencer says, weakly. "Yeah, me too."

He watches as Brendon takes the stairs two at a time up to bed.

—

When Spencer wakes up in the middle of the night, Brendon's not there next to him, and the sheets are cold. He pads downstairs in just his sleep pants, tugging a shirt out of the laundry pile to pull on as he goes in search of Brendon. It's just after four.

"What are you doing up?" he asks, when he finds Brendon in their music room, curled up in the corner with his notebook on his lap. Spencer leans up against the door frame and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

"Couldn't sleep," Brendon says, distractedly. "Fuck, this sucks." He tears a page out of his notebook and scrunches it up on the floor.

"Hey," Spencer says. "Don't be so fucking hard on yourself."

"I just—I have no idea what I'm doing, okay? I have no idea." Brendon shakes his head. "You picked the wrong side, dude. The wrong fucking side."

Spencer hates it when Brendon's this hard on himself. "I fucking did not," he says, crossing the room and dropping down to his knees in front of Brendon, hands on Brendon's thighs. "Don't ever say that. It was you or nothing, okay? And it was always going to be you."

Brendon's eyes look suspiciously red, but Spencer doesn't look away.

"Should have picked nothing," Brendon mumbles, and Spencer sighs, lying down on his back and shoving his head into Brendon's lap, underneath the notebook. Brendon makes a confused noise.

"Head scratches," Spencer says firmly, looking up at Brendon. His face looks funny upside down. Spencer can kind of see up his nose, which is weird and not necessarily something he needs to see so he makes sure to look only at Brendon's eyes. "Don't think I don't know this calms you down. Go."

"You're such a mercenary," Brendon says, but he sets his notebook down to one side, carding his hands through Spencer's hair and scratching his scalp. "Also, you need a shower."

"And a haircut," Spencer agrees. The space behind his eyelids feels heavy. He thinks he could probably drift off to sleep right here and now.

"You really think I can do this?" Brendon says softly. "You're really just. I don't know. I look at you and all I think about is that you're wasting your all your talent, waiting around for me to figure my shit out."

"I'm not," Spencer says honestly. "You're the most talented person I know. If we have to wait five years, we have to wait five years. I don't care. I don't need a new flat-screen TV every Christmas. We can get by until you figure out what you want." Brendon's hands still in his hair, and Spencer wonders if he's gone too far. Maybe he shouldn't have been quite that honest.

"You think we'll still be doing this in five years?" Brendon says quietly.

"Um," Spencer says. "Uh. If you. I mean, if you want to." _Try forever_ , Spencer thinks to himself, but he's really, really not ready to go there yet. He knows he's the settling-down type, and he knows that sometimes he sounds a little crazy inside his own head, but he's pretty sure that Brendon is it for him, it's over, he's done, he's happy. He can't even really imagine what it would be like to not be with Brendon right now, to have to date someone else and get to know them and meet their families. It's like the exact opposite of what he wants. He just wants more dogs and more surfboards and more instruments with Brendon, and maybe kids, someday, in a while. He's _definitely_ not going to say that one out loud.

"I really don't deserve you," Brendon says again, scratching his fingers through Spencer's hair and giving him a small, sad smile. "Not even a little bit."

"Them's the breaks," Spencer says. "Sorry. You're stuck with me."

Brendon doesn't say anything for a while, running his fingers over Spencer's scalp until Spencer can't help it, and he lets out an involuntary whine.

Brendon manages half a smile. "You're not just saying it?" he asks, after a minute.

Spencer shifts so that his cheek is against Brendon's thigh. He contemplates sarcasm, or making a joke, or saying something to lighten the mood, but Brendon's still quiet and kind of falling apart. "No," he says. "I'd never—" he stops, and curls his fingers into Brendon's. "I want to be here. I always want to be here."

Brendon pushes his notebook down onto the floor, pencil bouncing against the rug. "I don't have a clue what I'm doing," he admits, thumb stroking Spencer's cheekbone. It's relaxing enough that Spencer wants to fall asleep. He holds on to Brendon's hand and doesn't let go. "I don't know where we want the band to go."

"So," Spencer says. "Let's talk about it. Let's talk about everything. Let's figure it out. Try some shit out and see what sticks."

Brendon lets out a surprised breath.

"I'm serious," Spencer says, when Brendon doesn't reply. "Fuck it. No one ever said we have to be the same band. We can do anything we want. We can scrap everything we have and start all over again. We can record an instrumental album of light jazz with awesome drum parts," Spencer says, and Brendon cracks a full smile.

"A jazz two-piece?" Brendon says. "I could get down with that."

"We'd look so fucking hot in those suits, too," Spencer says, and Brendon snorts.

"I'll think about it," Brendon says. "Fuck, I'm really tired all of a sudden."

"So am I," Spencer says, yawning. "Or, well. I've been tired, and I'm still tired."

"You should have just stayed in bed," Brendon says, shaking his head ruefully as he starts to wiggle around in an attempt to get Spencer to sit up under his own power. "It's really late. Or really early, I don't even know anymore."

"It's okay," Spencer says, yawning as he rolls himself into a sitting position, and then reaching up to take Brendon's hand as Brendon helps him up off the carpet. "I got a sweet head massage out of the deal."

"You just want me for my head massages, I get it now," Brendon says, but he doesn't sound quite as tense as he did a minute ago.

Spencer lets out a breath. "And other things involving head," he says, trying for a wink and a waggle of his eyebrows. "You are master of all things head."

"You're a weirdo," Brendon says. He presses himself to Spencer's back. "Are you going to fall asleep on me if I take you upstairs and offer to suck your cock?"

Spencer contemplates the possibility. "Maybe?" he says. "But I'll be falling asleep with affection. It'll be a compliment."

"Sure it will," Brendon says. He sounds a little easier in himself. "You want me to wait until morning?"

"I didn't say that," Spencer says, affronted. He's so tired he can barely walk straight, and if it wasn't for Brendon's warm weight plastered against his back he'd probably be walking into the wall right now, but none of that is a reason to turn down an offer of a blowjob.

"But you'll probably fall asleep half-way through," Brendon says.

"Probably," Spencer agrees. "How about making out with me until you fall asleep instead?"

Brendon laughs, and presses a kiss to the back of Spencer's neck. "Thanks," he says, but he doesn't sound like he's joking. He rubs his nose against Spencer's skin.

"Yeah," Spencer says, and curls his fingers in Brendon's.

—

"You sure you don't want to come with?" Spencer says the next afternoon, as he's juggling his keys and his water bottle and Bogart's leash and one really overexcited Bogart who had darted towards the door as soon as he'd heard the words 'beach.' It's not Spencer's fault that their dog is so damn spoiled.

"I do," Brendon says, looking torn. "But I also kind of—I was working on something in there, and I think maybe—" He glances back towards their bedroom guiltily, to where his acoustic is laid out on their messy, unmade bed.

"Don't even worry about it," Spencer says, leaning over to peck Brendon on the lips. "I'm starting to feel bad that I even interrupted you. I just didn't want you working yourself to death." Spencer had woken up to the sound of Brendon playing softly, bent over the guitar with a far-away expression on the other side of the bed, and so far that's pretty much all Brendon's been doing for the past three hours.

"No, it's, I'm not," Brendon says, shuffling his feet. "It's just—I'm almost there. I think I'm almost there on this one, and if I go with you, I'm just going to be thinking about it the whole time. I'll be terrible company."

"Okay," Spencer says. "You want me to pick something up for dinner on the way back? Chinese? Tacos?"

"Burritos," Brendon says. "You know the ones I like."

"I do," Spencer agrees. He looks down, to where Bogart has wound himself around Spencer's legs with the leash and is now slobbering happily on his toes. "Come on," he says to their dog. "Let's go drop you in the ocean and see if you can remember how to swim."

"Don't drown my dog," Brendon says, smiling faintly as he leans in to kiss Spencer again. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"I don't know," Spencer says, shrugging. "An hour? Two hours? However long he feels like running around. That going to be long enough for you to work out this song?"

"I think so," Brendon says. He bites his lip. "Yeah. That should be fine. Text me when you're on your way back, okay? I want to have time to kind of pull myself out of the music and be a real human being with actual communication skills by the time you get back."

"Communication skills are nice," Spencer agrees. "But they're not strictly necessary. I'll still eat burritos with you even if you're still a music zombie when I get back."

"Awesome," Brendon says, waving goodbye to both of them as Spencer disentangles himself from Bogart's leash and leads him out the door. "Have fun, dudes."

—

Spencer's half way to the beach when he realizes he's left his wallet on the nightstand.

"Fuck," he says, succinctly, since not only does he need to pick up dinner on the way back home, he needs to pick up gas, too. The needle is already hovering over the red, and Spencer knows his car well enough to know that a trip to the beach and back again is going to wipe it out. "Sorry, kiddo," he says to Bogart, who's watching the road out of the window like it's the single most exciting thing to have ever happened to him, ever. Spencer's not exactly sure that their dog is the smartest dog that's ever lived. "We've got to go back, grab my wallet, and then come all the way out here again."

Spencer is pretty sure Bogart is rolling his eyes at him.

"I know," Spencer says, executing a messy u-turn, "I think I'm an idiot too. If I buy you a new ball, will you forgive me? We can tell Brendon that your old one got lost. In the ocean. Far, far away."

He's not imagining it, Bogart is definitely looking at him like he's stupid.

Spencer turns the stereo up loud and heads for home.

—

"Brendon!" Spencer calls, unlocking the front door and checking the hall table for his wallet. "B, I'm sorry, I'm a total fucking dumbass." He takes the stairs two at a time, and pushes open the door to their bedroom. "I left my wallet here, but like, I'm just going to grab it and go, I'm not going to bug you. Oh—" Spencer says softly, dumbfounded. He blinks at the scene in front of him, wondering exactly how it all fits together. It's like he recognizes every individual thing in front of his eyes, but his brain isn't quite parsing the whole picture.

Brendon's pulled the curtains back, sunlight streaming in through the second story windows onto his abandoned guitar and their still-unmade bed. He's sitting on the bed, cross-legged, next to a pile of markers, with more art supplies peeking out of an old plastic bag next to his hip. He has a Spiderman coloring book on his lap, open to a half-colored page. There's a few matchbox cars scattered around on the bed, and a larger plastic firetruck next to his foot. There's a juice box on the floor.

"Oh fuck," Brendon chokes out, scrambling away from Spencer and standing up, eyes wide and scared. Spencer tilts his head, still trying to figure out how this all fits together. There's definitely something here he's missing.

"Uh," Spencer says. "Hey. I forgot my wallet?"

"Fuck," Brendon says. His voice is all weird, high and desperate and thin at the edges.

"Did I—am I going to interrupt your creative process if I get it?" Spencer says. It's kind of the best explanation he can think of at the moment for the toys and the crayons and the coloring book. "Or should I just...stay here?"

"Just—" Brendon says, and then he breaks off. Spencer watches as Brendon stares down at his feet, face all scrunched up and shoulders hunched and everything about his body language screaming misery and fear and shame. Spencer doesn't know what to _do_. He doesn't understand even a little bit of what's going on here.

"Brendon," Spencer says softly, taking a step forward. "I'm sorry. I was just making a joke." _Why are you so upset,_ Spencer thinks, _why are you so upset all of a sudden, what did I do wrong, what were you even doing, anyway?_

"Can you just stay over there," Brendon whispers. "Just. For a little bit, okay?"

Spencer holds his hands up. "Brendon," he says. "B, are you okay?" He's changed his clothes, Spencer notices, looking Brendon up and down just in case there's something obvious that will make everything suddenly make sense. He's wearing his Kermit shirt again, but apart from the way Brendon's holding himself, scared and tense and _frightened_ , there's nothing to explain what the fuck is going on.

"No," Brendon says, in a choked voice. His cheeks are burning, and Spencer watches in horror as Brendon wipes away a tear with the back of his hand. He can't help but step forward, but Brendon holds his hands up. "Seriously," he says. "Just stay there."

"I'm staying right here," Spencer says. "I'm here, Brendon. I'm not going anywhere."

"Fuck," Brendon says, desperately. " _Fuck_. I told you to text me," he says, and his voice sounds unfamiliar to Spencer, strange and rough. "I told you. Why didn't you do what I asked?"

"Because I forgot my wallet," Spencer tells him. "Because I didn't know I needed to ask permission to come into my own house." He can hear the words coming out too sharp, tinged with fear, but he can't take them back. Spencer's scared now because he has no fucking clue what to do, and there's a Spider-man coloring book on his bedroom floor that Brendon was _coloring_ , and fuck, he can't even color inside the lines. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing," Brendon says, quickly. "It's just—it's nothing. Creative process, yeah. You were right." He kneels down and starts bundling the coloring book and the markers back into a pile, stuffing them into the bag even though they don't fit and he kicks a car across the room in his hurry to get everything away and out of sight. It hits Spencer's foot, and Spencer crouches down and picks it up. It's newer than the ones Spencer had when he was a kid, but not new like it's just out of a box. It looks played with.

"Brendon—" he says, softly, because Brendon's shaking, and Spencer doesn't have a clue what's going on.

"Give me that," Brendon says, grabbing for it, but Spencer holds it out of his reach. He doesn't know why, only that it feels like a clue, and Spencer doesn't feel like giving it up. Brendon's expression changes. "Fine," he says, sounding like he's about to cry. "Keep it. I don't care."

"Where did you get all of this stuff?" Spencer says, and Brendon shakes his head, ignoring Spencer and continuing to throw everything into the plastic bag. "It doesn't matter," Brendon says. "Just—fuck, whatever, it doesn't matter."

"Why are you so upset?" Spencer says. "I don't—"

"I can't talk to you about this right now," Brendon says, his voice shaking. He throws the plastic bag in the closet, and then pushes past Spencer, heading for the bathroom.

"The fuck?" Spencer says, frowning and following Brendon. He's still got the stupid toy car in his hand, and he slips it into his pocket right before Brendon slams the bathroom door in his face. "Brendon!" Spencer yells, banging on the door in amazement because like—what the fuck? What the _fuck_ , seriously, Spencer can't even remember the last time he was this pissed off and confused and scared all at once. He thinks about how Bogart is still out in the car, about how it seems like every single thing in his life has apparently gone to shit in a single second of—what? Of his discovery of Brendon having a creative process? He doesn't even _know._ Everything is fucked up and Spencer doesn't have any idea what's going on and that's when he hears the soft, unmistakable sound of choked sobs through the door.

"Fuck," Spencer says, letting his palm fall flat against the door, letting his forehead fall to touch the cool wood. "Fuck. Brendon, don't—fuck, Brendon. Don't cry. I'm sorry."

There's no answer.

"Goddamnit," Spencer says softly, to everyone and no one. Then he raises his voice a little, so he's sure Brendon will hear him. "Brendon," Spencer says, carefully modulating his voice so he doesn't sound angry or hurt or any of the things he's feeling right now. "Can I come in?"

"No," Brendon says immediately, sounding wrecked. "No. Just. Spencer, just fucking go away, okay? Just. Just go away."

"I can't," Spencer says. He's trying not to sound worried or upset but he can't help it, he can hear it slipping through. "I can't leave you when you're—when you're upset." _When you_ _'_ _re scared_ , he thinks. _When you_ _'_ _re so scared that you_ _'_ _re crying._

"I'm not," Brendon says, but he is, Spencer can hear him. Christ.

"Okay," Spencer says. "I left Bogart in the car, so I'm going to go get him, and get you a glass of water and then you're going to let me in, okay?"

There's no answer, and Spencer rubs his eyes with his fists, suddenly exhausted. _Okay_ , he thinks, and goes downstairs to bring Bogart in from the car. There's no chance of going to the beach now.

He's only gone a couple of minutes but when he gets back upstairs with Bogart and a glass of water, he can hear the soft, desperate sounds of Brendon throwing up through the door.

 _Fuck_ , Spencer thinks, and he lets Bogart go down. He bangs on the door.

"Brendon," he says, "please, let me in."

"No," Brendon says, and then he's retching again, dry, desperate heaves punctuated by sobs. It's the worst sound in the world.

"B," he says, trying the door handle. "Please don't cry. Don't cry, baby. Let me in. I don't care. Whatever it is, I don't care. Just, let me in." Brendon doesn't say anything, and Spencer tries the handle again. "Let me in, Brendon. You're scaring me."

It's another minute before anything happens. Spencer's running his fingers down the hinges, wondering if he can take the door off, when he hears the familiar scrape of the bolt drawing back.

"Brendon?" Spencer says softly. "Brendon, hey."

"Hey," Brendon says, equally quiet. Through the crack of the door, he looks sick and sad and pale. Spencer looks at him for a moment, trying to think of something, _anything_ to say. He can't. All he wants to do is give Brendon a hug right now.

"Can you open the door a little bit more?" Spencer says. "I want to hug you. If that's okay."

Brendon bites his lip. "I'm all gross," Brendon says. "I'm all—-Spencer, I'm so fucking sorry. I don't even know what that was, I just—"

"I don't care," Spencer says. "We'll figure it out later. I just want to touch you right now." He pushes his fingers through the crack in the door, widening the gap until he can brush them against Brendon's t-shirt. "I just want to know you're okay," Spencer says. "Are you okay?" His voice shakes a little.

"Not really," Brendon says shakily, pushing the door open a little farther.

"Can I hug you anyway?" Spencer says. "Brendon, please, whatever it is, you can tell me. I don't care. Whatever's going on in your head, it's _okay._ " He inches closer to where Brendon's sitting on the floor, just inside the doorway.

"I must have eaten something bad," Brendon lies, but Spencer doesn't believe him. He can count the number of times he's heard Brendon throw up from nerves, over the years. It's rare, but it has happened. All he can think about is how freaked out Brendon is, and how scared and upset he is, and how it's screwing with Spencer's head. He has no idea what's going on but what he does know is that he's in love with Brendon and Brendon's scared.

"Please," Spencer says. "Let me just come in there, okay? Or you come out here."

"It smells in here," Brendon says. His breath catches, his fingers still on the door.

"You come out here, then," Spencer says. He itches to touch him. He wants to hug Brendon and run his fingers all over him just to make sure he's okay. Whatever's going on inside of him they can figure out later. "We'll sit on the stairs."

"I'm sorry," Brendon says again, and Spencer shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "I don't care. Come out here. I have water."

Brendon pushes open the door all the way. His face is flushed, his forehead a little sweaty. His hair's sticking up. He wraps his arms around himself, and for a moment he looks so much younger than he is, scared and unsure.

"Hey," Spencer says. He holds out a hand, uncertain. "Are you going to let me hug you, now? I can stay over here if you need me to." Spencer's never known Brendon ask people to stay at arm's length before. It isn't a good feeling.

"You can hug me," Brendon says, after a moment, and Spencer lets out a breath.

"Thank fuck," he says.

Brendon gives Spencer a tiny smile, weak and unsure, but that's all Spencer needs to wrap his arms around Brendon. Brendon's tense against him at first, but Spencer just holds on, tucking Brendon's head into the crook of his shoulder and rubbing his back and doing everything he can think of to get Brendon to relax. It takes a few minutes, but Brendon's shoulders slump, eventually, and then all of a sudden he's hugging Spencer back, tight and desperate.

"It's going to be okay," Spencer says uselessly, running the fingers of one hand through Brendon's hair while the other rubs at his back. "It's going to be okay. We'll going to make the best album in the world. You'll see."

Brendon pulls back, blinking up at Spencer for a moment. "Album?" Brendon says, frowning, and then he laughs, short and sharp and humorless. "Right," Brendon whispers. "The album."

"Brendon—" Spencer says, his stomach sinking again, because if this isn't about the album then like...fuck, what _is_ it about? Spencer doesn't think he can handle Brendon having an actual mental breakdown right now. He doesn't know what to do. He's never felt so helpless.

"Spencer, don't—I'm _okay_ ," Brendon says, looking up at him tiredly, and Spencer guesses that everything he's feeling must show on his face, because Brendon shakes his head at Spencer ruefully, rubbing his thumbs over the back of Spencer's neck. "I'm really fucking upset and messed up right now but I'm not dying, okay? I'm not going crazy. Stop looking at me like I'm going to break."

 _I think you just did_ , Spencer thinks, but he keeps the thought to himself, leaning down so he can press his face into Brendon's hair and just breathe for a moment. "You scared me," Spencer mumbles, when he feels like he can talk again. "I just. That kind of came out of nowhere. I got really fucking scared. I can't lose you."

"You won't," Brendon says. "It won't happen again. I'm sorry."

Spencer's too freaked out to try and figure out how he's supposed to respond to that, so he doesn't. He strokes Brendon's hair and presses his mouth to Brendon's temple. "You scared me," he says, again.

"I know," Brendon says. "But everything's fine now. Can we just—" he takes a deep breath. "Can we forget it happened?"

"Brendon—" Spencer says, but it isn't like he knows what he's supposed to say to that, anyway. What is he supposed to say to _any_ of it? "Maybe we should talk about it," he says, but mostly because he has to, because their band broke in two because of all the shit they never talked about. It isn't like Spencer wants things back the way they were, but maybe if they'd talked about some of this stuff earlier on it wouldn't have ended up the way that it did.

"No, seriously," Brendon says, tightly, pulling away. "Everything is fine. We don't need to talk about anything. Seriously, you're driving me crazy. I've told you everything's okay, why won't you drop it?"

"I'm not—" Spencer has no fucking clue what the fuck is going on.

"I thought you trusted me," Brendon says. "Is this what this is about? Why can't we just forget it?" He's tense and desperate beneath Spencer's palm, and Spencer thinks back to the sound of Brendon throwing up through the locked bathroom door, the way that he'd had to listen to him cry. The way his eyes are still red and he smells of sweat and vomit and the way that Spencer can still feel him trembling beneath his hand. Brendon's still terrified, even now, when he's all sharp edges and desperation. Even when Spencer still has no idea what's going on.

"Sure," he says. "Let's forget it. It's fine. I trust you."

"Yeah," Brendon says, but his voice shakes. "Fucking good."

"Right," Spencer says uselessly. "Okay."

"Okay," Brendon says, a little softer, a little desperate. "Okay. Good."

—

Shit is weird for the next few days.

Spencer doesn't really know how to describe it, or explain it, except to say that something is just...off. Brendon's outwardly fine, outwardly normal, curling up next to Spencer at night and going out and surfing during the day with Shane and Regan. He'd told Spencer a little guiltily the first time, clutching his travel mug full of coffee in the kitchen, caught in the act of leaving as the sun peeked over the horizon and Spencer's tired brain tried to parse what was going on. _It_ _'_ _s seriously not you_ , Brendon had said helplessly, crossing the kitchen and kissing Spencer firmly when he saw Spencer's expression. _It_ _'_ _s not, I promise, I_ _'_ _m not leaving, I just need space. I just need to clear my head for a while._

And the weird thing is that Spencer believes Brendon, one hundred percent, knows deep down inside that Brendon really does just need time off from whatever's going on between them, because he's seen it before. Spencer's pretty sure that with anyone else he'd be waiting to come home to a half-empty house and a note on the table but Brendon isn't like that anymore, they aren't like that, and Brendon's not just going to up and leave him.

At least, that's what Spencer's been telling himself in the mornings, when he wakes up to yet another note next to the coffee pot, always complete with goofy, misshapen heart, the house silent around him except for the clacking of Bogart's nails on the tile.

It's almost working.

—

Spencer finds the toy car in the pocket of his hoodie a couple of days later. Brendon had disappeared before breakfast, Spencer waking to the sound of Brendon's car in the driveway, and Spencer had spent half an hour sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of cold coffee before he'd reasoned that there was no point just sitting here hoping that the world wasn't going to fall in around him. He'd done the dishes, and checked the store cupboard to see if they were running out of Bogart's supplies, and then he'd given in and done laundry, first one load and then another. He'd found the hoodie on the floor in their bedroom, and he hadn't remembered pocketing Brendon's toy car until it falls out of the pocket and on to the floor.

"Fuck," Spencer says, softly, crouching down to pick it up. He looks at it for a moment, turning it over to see if there's a year printed on the underside. Part of him wants it to be an old one, one of Brendon's from when he was young, the bag just a collection of things his mom had passed over from his childhood. Everybody goes through their old stuff, he thinks. He can't understand why else Brendon would have it.

The year says 2006.

Spencer swallows, goes to put another load of laundry in the machine, and then he boots up his laptop and puts the car down on the coffee table. He stares at it for the time it takes his computer to load, and then when he's opened his browser, he carefully types "what does it mean when I find my boyfriend playing with toy cars?" He gets a page that says, _five signs your boyfriend is cheating_ , which is something that Spencer's one-hundred percent sure isn't happening, at least. He clicks out and rewords his question, but none of the suggested pages seem to be anything like the answer to his question. He tries again, but this time he gets one that says, _is it weird that my dog licks my pussy_?—which is weirder than the normal pages he comes across on Google, at least, so he reads the comments and stares a little at the chart at the top of the page that says fifty-six percent of commenters think it's okay. "That's not okay," he says, out loud, and then he tries different questions in Google until he gets a page that says, _what does the term ageplay mean to you?_

Spencer closes the lid of the laptop and stares at the toy car for a while. He thinks about the toy car, and the crayons, and the coloring book, and how peaceful Brendon had looked in that split-second before he'd noticed that Spencer was standing in the doorway, biting his lip, a small smile on his face directed at everything and nothing. He'd just looked—happy.  
Spencer pushes his laptop open again. There's totally an explanation for all of this, and he's going to find it. He lives in the twenty-first century. This is what the internet is _for._ He can stay here all night going through Google search results if it means that eventually he'll hit upon a blog entry by the one other guy in the history of the world who also had his boyfriend freak out on him over a toy car and a box of crayons for no apparent reason. Spencer pulls up Safari again and then he sees the search result under the _What does the term ageplay mean to you_? page. There's a snippet of text about embracing your inner child, and Spencer clicks on it with trepidation, covering his eyes as he clicks. He really, really, really hopes that "inner child" isn't a metaphor for weird creepy gonna-get-arrested where's-the-brain-bleach child porn, although his rational brain is pointing out that weird creepy gonna-get-arrested-need-brain-bleach child porn probably doesn't show up on the third page hit from Google. He's pretty sure that there are governments and task forces and secret internet police to take care of that kind of thing. Spencer has never been so thankful for them as he is right now.

He takes a deep breath, pulling his hand away, and then he's rewarded with an entirely boring page with lots of text and a few clip-art pictures of ladybugs and sunflowers and bears. The top of the page informs him in large, 24-point font that ageplay—whatever the hell thatis—has nothing to do with children, doesn't involve children, seriously, it's just consenting adults doing things that make them happy with other consenting adults, and if Spencer is in fact one of those weirdos looking for something else he can just back-button the fuck off that page.

Spencer feels both comforted and slightly foolish. "The internet is complicated," he tells Bogart, reaching down to scratch him behind the ear. Bogart whines in agreement. "Okay," he says. "I can do this."

He googles _"what is ageplay?"_ and spends a minute staring at the list of pages before picking one at random to click on. He's rewarded with a picture of a tall man in a rubber diaper. "Christ," he says, and clicks back out. Somewhere out there is a page that isn't going to scare the crap out of him. The next one is all text, and no paragraphs. _Fuck_ , he thinks, and he's about to x-out when a line catches his eye. _Ageplay is a way of letting go and embracing your inner child in a controlled environment where it_ _'_ _s safe to play, to love, to feel secure._

"Okay," he says again, and tries not to think about Brendon curled up on their bedroom floor with his coloring book. He sort of wants to shut his laptop and forget all of this, but he can't, not when he can still remember Brendon crying in the bathroom. He goes back to Google and tries again.

It's an hour later when he finds one that feels like it's not going to make him want to run for the hills. It's a blog, and it's written by someone living with someone who sometimes likes to act like a little boy, and Spencer is almost scared to read on, just in case it in some way resembles his life with Brendon. He doesn't even know that Brendon _is_ into this stuff. Spencer's basing a hell of a lot of supposition on a couple of toy cars and one particularly terrifying afternoon with his laptop.

Spencer scrolls down the list of recent blog posts on the side of the page, and lets his mouse hover over the one that says, _why do I do it?_

He isn't sure he wants to know.

 _Every month it_ _'_ _s the same_ , the post says. _People drop by my blog and read a couple of posts and leave me the same comment. You_ _'_ _re a freak and your boyfriend is too. It used to get to me, and every time it happened I used to go and hide out somewhere and feel crappy about what me and Steve get up to. What me and Steve get up to in our own home, that doesn_ _'_ _t hurt anyone and makes us both happy._

Spencer squints dubiously at the screen.

_Now I just think: you don't have a clue what it feels like. You don't know what it's like to take care of someone when they're letting you see everything they have tucked away inside, even if maybe those parts don't always make sense. You don't know what it's like to accept that kind of responsibility, to know that they're trusting you with absolutely everything they have. You don't know what it's like to hear them laugh or watch them smile and know that that happiness is coming from a place that most people can't even really get to. They're not broken, and they're not sick or wrong or anything like that. It's the exact opposite, actually. Some times I think Steve is probably the most well-adjusted guy I know when he's not acting down. He knows what his outlet is, and he uses it. We both do. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't get as much out of our time together as he does._

"Huh," Spencer says, out loud, because—huh.

_Anyway, the point is: you don't know what it's like, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry you'll never get to experience that kind of love and trust and honesty. I'm sorry you'll never get to hold someone like Steve and watch them fall asleep in your arms—_

"Okay, feeling weird now," Spencer says, clicking on the back button. His stomach feels all tied up in knots, and he doesn't know why, except he's pretty sure that maybe this explains a lot of things about the past two weeks. Fuck, maybe it explains a lot of things about _Brendon._ Spencer doesn't know.

Fuck, he hopes there are no rubber diapers involved in this. He'd have noticed by now if Brendon was into that, right?

"Right?" he says helplessly, staring down at Bogart. Bogart yips at him companionably, and then circles for a bit before sitting down on her doggie bed and ignoring him.

"I think I need a beer," Spencer tells his empty house. His voice comes out slightly unsteady. "Like, two beers. Or something stronger. And a smoke." Bogart barks, and Spencer nods. "Yeah, I get you," he says. "This calls for shots."

He has two shots of something purple that he thinks is supposed to be grape flavored vodka - although why they own that he doesn't know - burps loudly, and then leans over the sink. There's a stack of free gifts from cereal boxes in a cracked bowl on the windowsill, gathering dust. Or, at least they _should_ be gathering dust. Spencer tosses the plastic-wrapped free gifts into the bowl whenever he comes across one in the bottom of his cereal box, after Brendon had caught him trying to throw a free _High School Musical_ toy into the trash one time and raised a stink. Now Spencer tosses them into the bowl, raises his eyebrows at Brendon and says, "See?" Sometimes Spencer sees Brendon throw one in the general direction of the bowl, too, but he's never seen either of them go near it apart from that. Spencer had sort of half-heartedly assumed they were building a cereal box toy mountain, and one day they'd be able to climb it, like Everest.

The bowl isn't dusty, and none of the toys are in their plastic wrappers anymore, and the free Legos toys have been built into tiny rockets and shuttles and cars. The smurf that came free with a Happy Meal has a stain on its little blue leg.

Spencer spreads them all out on the kitchen table and stares down at them for a while.

"Fuck," he says, succinctly. "Fuck."

—

"You're drunk, aren't you," Brendon says, when he finally comes home, smelling of beach and sunshine and covered in sand. Spencer considers denying it, but he's kind of laid up on the couch with the bottle of grape-flavoured vodka and the dog and a bowl full of popcorn kernels from when he'd gotten the drunk munchies.

"Kinda," Spencer says. "Bogart and I were doing shots. Male bonding time."

"You are the only person I know who does shots with his dog," Brendon says, inspecting the half-empty bottle of Evian that's sitting on the coffee table next to a shot glass and Bogart's water dish. "I see you bought him the good stuff."

"You gotta be good to your bro," Spencer informs Brendon solemnly. There might be two of Brendon when Spencer takes a good long look at him, but that's okay with Spencer. He can handle two Brendons. Two Brendons would be nice. Maybe one of them will talk to him about something other than the grocery list or what movie they're going to watch tonight. Spencer can't remember the last time he and Brendon had an honest conversation. Oh wait, yes he can, and it ended with Brendon in the bathroom crying. Spencer's life sucks right now. "You should come do shots with us. It's time for another round."

"I should go take a shower," Brendon says, leaning over to scratch Bogart behind the ears. Spencer waits for it, but Brendon doesn't lean out to touch him, and suddenly he's left feeling lost and even more listless and miserable than he did a moment ago.

"Or that," Spencer says, and tries manfully to keep the hurt out of his voice. He knows Brendon's fucked up right now, and he knows they're both trying. It's just that all of a sudden Spencer doesn't even know where to start with everything between them, and now Brendon is maybe sort of into something weird and kinky and Spencer doesn't know what to do except get drunk and feel sorry for himself.

"I'm all sandy, I need to shower before I do anything else," Brendon says, even though it's never bothered him before. Spencer spent an entire Saturday three months ago vacuuming their damn couch because Brendon got so much sand on it.

"Sure," Spencer says, and waits until Brendon's out of the room to pour himself another round. He looks over at Bogart, who has his ears perked up.

"See," Spencer tells him. "You know what's up. You know the Evian is better than tap water, don't you boy? That's right."

Bogart cocks his head at him.

"Okay, maybe you don't," Spencer admits, pouring another shot glass full of Evian and setting it next to his shot of vodka. "But whatever. Ready? One—two—" He dumps the shot glass into Bogart's water dish, and even though he's obviously just adding water to more water Bogart still jumps up to investigate, his nails clattering on the coffee table as he balances himself with his front paws and sticks his nose in.

"Don't give him too many shots," Brendon says, sticking his head back in and frowning. "He's going to have to pee like a racehorse later. I don't want to walk him twice."

"Then come do shots with me," Spencer says, and he tries to keep his tone light, and not accusing. "Or are you too busy showering?"

"Fuck it," Brendon says, rolling his eyes and walking across the living room. "Gimme. One shot won't get me drunk, right?"

"Why?" Spencer says, frowning in confusion as he holds the vodka bottle in temporary hostage. "Are you going somewhere?"

"We don't have any food," Brendon says. "We have to go grocery shopping, remember? One of us has to drive. So we can get food."

"Or we could order pizza," Spencer points out.

"We could," Brendon agrees. "But I don't think the pizza place is going to offer to throw in dog food and toilet paper and dish soap and trash bags with our order."

"Oh," Spencer says. "Right."

"Pour me a shot," Brendon says, holding the shot glass out imperiously. "But don't take another one yourself. I don't want to be picking you up off the floor in the supermarket. Why the hell are you so drunk, anyway? It's barely even 4pm."

 _Why do you think?_ Spencer wants to snap, but he doesn't. It's not going to solve anything, and he should probably keep his mouth shut until he figures out a little more about what's going on inside Brendon's head lately.

"Long story," Spencer says, unscrewing the cap on the vodka. A few drops dribble out of the screw top and onto his thumb, and he licks them away before pouring Brendon's shot. "Tell you later."

"Is everything okay?" Brendon says, frowning slightly and starting to look concerned. "Your family? Ryan? Jon? Fuck, what did they do? They did something, didn't they?"

"Uh," Spencer says. "Maybe? Sure." He blinks at Brendon. As much as he feels like shit blaming this on Ryan and Jon, it's not like they haven't made themselves a convenient target lately.

Brendon grimaces. "Don't tell me," Brendon says, tipping his head back to pound the shot. "Tell me later. After we've gone to get food and gotten more beer and I'm just as drunk as you are. I mean, seriously, what the hell are you drinking?" He picks up the bottle of grape-flavoured vodka. "Did they announce that they're suing us or something? Why are you punishing yourself with this?"

"It grows on you," Spencer says, tugging the bottle back. "It's not so bad after the third shot. I'm starting to like it."

"It tastes like liquid Jolly Ranchers soaked in booze," Brendon says.

"I know," Spencer says. "Why don't you like it? That's the kind of shit you always love."

"Maybe with mixers," Brendon says, making a face. "Anyway. I'm gonna go shower. Don't drink anymore. I mean it. We'll stop for some Jack-in-the-Box on the way to the supermarket. I don't need to peel you off the floor while we're in there."

"Uh-huh," Spencer says, and waits until Brendon's out of the room to open up his laptop again. He pauses for a moment on his search results, still open in a tab, and then very carefully clicks back to Steve and Eric's weirdo kink blog and saves the link before opening up a new tab to figure out what Ryan and Jon have been doing this week.

—

Spencer doesn't get a chance to go on another Google search until three days later, and this time he's prepared.

"You ready?" He asks Bogart, looking down at his feet. Bogart barks up at him, wagging his tail.

"Right," Spencer says, stretching his shoulders out. He has emergency alcohol, emergency weed, and moral support from his dog. He can do this.

He takes a deep breath, and types "ageplay kink" into his browser. He's been thinking about it, turning everything up and down in his brain, and the more he thinks about it the more Brendon's thing sounds like sort of like a kink or a fetish or something. Maybe that's a better place to start. Spencer knows a little bit about _that_ kind of kinky stuff. Or at least, he knows that sometimes people make porn where they're wearing collars and it gets him off, which is pretty much the same thing.

The first image that comes up after he turns Safe Search off is a grown women wearing a schoolgirl outfit with pigtails and knee socks, bending over a table and getting spanked. Spencer blinks at it. It's kind of hot, in that airbrushed sort of way. For a split second he gets a brief flash of what _Brendon_ would look like in that outfit, and it's sort of disturbingly attractive, but then he shakes his head to clear it and moves on. That's probably not the kind of thing that Brendon's into. He'd found toy cars, not a schoolgirl skirt. Unfortunately.

The second and third and fourth and fifth and sixth images all have diapers in them, and Spencer skims by them hurriedly. But the seventh makes him pause; it's an unfocused shot, obviously something pulled from someone's personal flickr account. All Spencer can see is the set of a young man's shoulders, the way he's cupped his hands around his Princess backpack straps like a little kid. He's wearing a bright red t-shirt and his backpack is bright pink but the clashing of colors isn't what's catching Spencer's eye; it's the way the guy is smiling, a flash of eyelash and a wide grin, head turned slight to one side.

It's the way there's a hand reaching out from the side of the picture, an open outstretched palm.

"Huh," Spencer says, soft and interested. He doesn't know why, but there's something compelling about this picture. It makes his chest hurt, but in a good way, a diffuse ache that feels a little bit like longing.

He skims the rest of the guy's flickr account, and while there's no identifying information, Spencer starts to piece the story together. It's a straight couple, he thinks, judging by the female shoes he sees in the corner of one picture, a purse resting on a table. There are glimpses of regular pictures in some of the shots as well; a smiling couple on a mountain top in hiking clothes, framed on a table next to a pile of children's books and a cup with a spill-proof lid. There's never any direct facial shots, but Spencer gets the feeling that the couple is about his and Brendon's age, maybe a little older. But the most unnerving thing about the whole set is how it just seems to be natural; like it's just something they _do_ , when they're not being adults, and how they obviously created this photo set to share with others who might be into the same thing.

"It's still kind of weird," Spencer tells Bogart, who is staring up at him with an interested expression. "Like. Everyone keeps saying it's no big deal, that it's just something that some people like to do, but what if they're lying? What if Brendon—" He can't finish the thought out loud. The idea of someone hurting Brendon makes him sick to his stomach, and the idea of someone hurting Brendon when he was a _kid_ is even worse. It makes him want to throw up, and Spencer shakes his head again to clear it before reaching for his dime bag of weed.

"I know I have to ask him," Spencer tells Bogart, as he pinches a few buds out into his grinder. "I get that. And I don't think that's what's going on, but I have to know for sure."

Bogart licks his knee.

"And if that's not it, then like," Spencer says, and then he shrugs down at Bogart. "It's still weird," Spencer tells him. "But it's less weird, I guess. It's more like. Harmless weird."

Bogart noses against his knee.

"It's kind of almost sweet-weird," Spencer tells her, scratching him behind the ears. "Like. I mean not the schoolgirl stuff, that's just hot. But Brendon's stuff, I don't know, it just—-" _kind of makes me feel funny inside,_ Spencer thinks, and then shakes his head. He doesn't know what this new feeling in his chest is whenever he thinks about Brendon like that; he only knows that it's not unpleasant. "Whatever," Spencer tells Bogart. "I'm going to smoke this joint and then we're going to keep looking, okay? Maybe we'll find some other stuff that will make this all make sense."

The joint doesn't make him feel any less funny inside. He keeps coming back to it in his head, over and over, the flickr set with the couple in their home, Steve and Eric's blog, Brendon's easy smile in that short moment before he'd realized Spencer had been standing there, looking at him. Brendon had been _happy_ , and Spencer had fucked that up for him, and somehow that makes the whole thing even worse. Brendon had been _happy_. Whatever the fuck he'd been doing with a coloring book and a toy car had been making him smile, and it doesn't matter how many websites Spencer clicks on, trying to figure this stuff out in his head, it doesn't fix Brendon. It doesn't make him smile like that again.

He lets Bogart curl up in his lap, scritching him between his ears. "Yeah," he says, "being petted is awesome, I know. Happiest dog in the world." He sighs, rolling his shoulders, and runs his finger half-heartedly over the trackpad on his laptop. He needs someone to scratch him between the ears. Or between the shoulder blades. His back feels tense. It's probably the weird gap that's opening up down the middle of their bed every night, the way he wakes up hyper aware that he's on one side of the bed and Brendon's on the other. The way Brendon's out of the fucking house again, doing whatever it is that he does all day that doesn't involve hanging out with Spencer. Spencer lets out a breath. He misses his fucking boyfriend, and now his head is all screwed up too, and there's this weird, funny feeling in his chest that he can't figure out how to put a name to.

He clicks away from Google and opens his email instead. There's nothing from Brendon, which isn't surprising considering he's probably smoking weed on Shane's couch and playing X-box, but Spencer isn't pretending to be rational. He's just desperate, and kind of screwed up, and he keeps thinking about the photo of the guy with the princess backpack and feeling _weird_. He tugs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls down until he gets to Brendon's number.

Spencer half-expects for it to go to voicemail, but Brendon answers it on the fifth ring, mid-laugh. "Hey."

"Hey," Spencer says. "So, do you want to go see a movie tonight?"

There's a pause.

"Bring Shane and Regan," Spencer says, because Brendon isn't saying yes or no. The fact that Brendon clearly doesn't want to hang out with him by himself is making Spencer's chest hurt.

"Okay," Brendon says. "Hang on, I'll check if they're busy."

Spencer nods, and listens as Brendon drops the phone and shouts through to wherever Shane is. His mouse hovers over his bookmarks and he can't help it, he's clicking on Steve and Eric's blog again, because Steve seems to maybe want the same kinds of things that Brendon does, and Steve and Eric aren't breaking up. Steve and Eric are doing whatever it is that they're doing, and they're happy, and they're _not breaking up_. Spencer wants that part of it more than anything else. He thinks—although he's not exactly certain of this—that even if what Brendon wants is diapers, Spencer is willing to give it a go if it means they can get rid of this tension between them and go back to the way things were.

 _Please fuck don_ _'_ _t let it be diapers_ , Spencer thinks, and lets out a breath as he starts scrolling down the page, reading the titles of the blog posts, waiting for Brendon to come back on the line.

"Sure," Brendon says, breathlessly, a moment later. "Shane says there's a new burger place opened in the mall by the movie theater, you want to get burgers or something before the movie? Regan doesn't finish work until seven. We could just meet there then."

Spencer keeps thinking about the post he read the last time he'd been on Eric's blog, about Steve being little—acting _down_ , they'd called it—and the calm, measured way Eric had talked about it like it was normal. Like it was a part of their relationship the way that blowjobs and taking out the trash was. He clicks on a link called _picnic time,_ and opens it in a new tab. There's a picture of a blanket laid on the grass with a picnic set out for two, on pirate party plates with a teddy bear propped up by the jug of juice. His heart hurts.

"You want to meet us there?" Brendon prompts.

"Sure," Spencer says. "You want anything from the mall? I'm going go shopping before I meet you guys, I think."

"I'm good," Brendon says. There's a beat where neither of them say anything. "Love you," he says, all in a rush.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Me too," but Brendon's already hung up.

—

Spencer ends up mooching around the mall way earlier than he planned to, because the alternative is reading more of Steve and Eric's blog and trying to figure out what that weird feeling in his chest is that turns up whenever he reads about Steve being happy. He picks getting out of the house and wandering the mall instead of staying home and thinking, because Eric had just put a new post up about fixing Steve sandwiches in the shape of Mickey Mouse, and for a second - a _really brief_ second, Spencer imagined doing the same thing for Brendon and didn't freak out.

Spencer can't tell if he would have preferred it if he'd just felt horrified. Instead, he's left with the lingering memory of imagining Brendon's smile as Spencer presented him with sandwiches in the shape of bats, and the way that makes him feel is—it's not bad. It's not freaked out. It's not—

For that moment, that brief moment, it feels good.

He buys a shirt that says _pigeons do it backwards_ , just because that's the way he likes to roll, and then he spends way too long picking out new shampoo. They haven't been touring as much as they used to, and Spencer's long collection of free hotel haircare products is wearing thin. He's not used to having to buy his own; he can't decide between the ones that smell fruity, or the ones that smell like thyme and sandalwood, or the ones that pretend they smell like _man_. He doesn't exactly want to smell like man; he's been on tour long enough and frequently enough that smelling natural is exactly what he wants to avoid. He picks one out that supposed to smell like mint and tea tree, and then he gets in line. By the time it's his turn to pay, he's picked up shaving foam that smells like green tea and that he thinks Brendon might like, and a new chapstick. The a/c at Brendon's place dries his skin out.

Then he finds himself walking past the toy store, and then he finds himself _in_ the toy store, and then he finds himself kneeling in the aisle by the toy cars.

He doesn't know what he's doing, and he's pretty sure that there's a way that giving a gift to Brendon could go, and that could be _badly_ , and he's risking a lot. He's risking everything on the off chance that a lot of internet research has, for the first time ever, led him to the right place. He's risking a lot by assuming that this is what Brendon really wants.

But then he can't help but remember Brendon's face before he realized Spencer had walked in, and how _happy_ he'd seemed, and he can't help but remember what it had felt like to have to listen through the bathroom door to Brendon throwing up. He thinks about both as he holds in the box in his hands, turning it over and over.

The thing is: Spencer is in love with Brendon in a long term, kind of forever sort of a way. He doesn't want Brendon to have to hide parts of himself away because he's ashamed. He just—doesn't want that. He wants Brendon to be happy, even if what makes him happy is _this_.

Spencer makes a decision about what to buy, shoulders his messenger bag, and goes to join the line. He figures that even if he decides not to give it to Brendon, it's easier to have something than not. He can't figure out if he's making a really stupid decision or a good one.

He thinks maybe he's almost as mixed up as Brendon right now.

—

Spencer knows he's going to be the last to arrive at the burger place; he'd gotten sidetracked in the bookstore, trying to figure out if there was a book that might help. He was sort of hoping there was one called _my boyfriend_ _'_ _s kink is really weird and I_ _'_ _m all conflicted_ , but the closest he could get was one called _my lover and I disagree: where to go from here_ , which wasn't what he wanted at all. They hadn't disagreed. Spencer just doesn't understand, and Brendon won't talk to him to explain.

Plus he thinks _lover_ is a stupid word.

It's already seven by the time he checks his watch, so he stops reading the chapter called _how to address conflict in your relationship and still remain lovers_ and gathers his bags up. He needs to take them back to the car before meeting Brendon and the others; he's not sure there's a way he can explain the bag from the toy store without sending Brendon off into another crisis, and Spencer wants to avoid that at all costs. He'd be happy if he never had to see Brendon freak out again, if he's honest. So he hides his bags in the trunk of his car, and jogs back across the parking lot to the mall, heading for the burger place.

"You're late," Shane says, as Spencer weighs up the options of the free seat in the booth next to Regan, or the half a seat Brendon's left around his side of the table. He squashes in next to Brendon and rubs the back of his hand against Brendon's thigh. Brendon smiles a little nervously, and moves up so that Spencer can fit in. He doesn't push Spencer's hand away, though, which is a plus. Spencer was beginning to think that Brendon never wanted to touch him again.

"Sorry," Spencer says, without sounding sorry at all. "I'm thinking about getting a new camera, what do you think?" He figures if he says that, the others will assume he was looking at cameras and not hanging out in the _fix your relationship_ section in Barnes and Noble, or the fucking toy store. He'd spent way too long in the toy store.

"Maybe Santa will bring you one if you ask him nicely enough," Brendon says, cheeks a little pink, and Spencer takes advantage of Brendon's flush to sneak his hand into his, squeezing.

"Oh yeah?" Spencer says. Fuck, he wants things to be fixed between him and Brendon. Brendon's hand is hot in his, but at least he's squeezing back. At least there's hope that the two of them aren't going to break up and Spencer isn't going to have to figure out how to put together the fractured shards of his own broken heart.

Spencer thinks that maybe he shouldn't have paid as much attention to the _it didn_ _'_ _t work out, what do I do now?_ section of that stupid self-help book.

"Yeah," Brendon says, glancing around to see if anyone is watching them holding hands. Spencer knows that Brendon's more aware of stuff like this than he is, but then he doesn't exactly fear coming out to his parents as much as Brendon does. Sometimes it takes Brendon a while to remember that he doesn't have to modify his behavior for anyone anymore. "But forget we ever had this conversation. I hear Santa doesn't bother with losers who won't shut up about lens specifications for like, the next three months."

Spencer mimes zipping his mouth closed. "My lips are sealed," he says.

Shane winks at him. "Just saying," he says. "If you wanted to talk to me about lens specifications sometimes, I might be able to pass that shit on to Santa."

Spencer makes a face. "This is the weirdest fucking conversation," he says. "Did I walk into the twilight zone? Have you guys been smoking all day?"

"Seems like it," Regan says, helping herself to an olive from the little dish in front of her. "We got appetizers."

"Cool," Spencer says, since he likes olives, and he bets that Shane and Brendon made Regan order one of those giant appetizer platters, full of wings and jalapeno poppers and mozzarella sticks. "Did you order drinks?"

"Beer," Brendon says, and if he sounds a little awkward, Spence's not going to point it out. He's laughing a little louder than normal, but he's not pulling away, and he's not making Spencer sit someplace else, and that's kind of progress from the last few days at least. "Did you buy anything?"

"A t-shirt with pigeons on it," Spencer says, pulling the menu over so he can take a look. He wants the biggest burger, with all of the shit he can pile on to it. "It's pretty awesome." Brendon's leg is bouncing under the table, and Spencer tries to still him, letting go of his hand and stroking his thigh instead. Brendon lets out a breath. "Got you some shaving foam, too."

"So much for my manly beard of manliness," Brendon says, pulling a sad face and then spoiling it by snorting a laugh. Spencer wonders if Shane and Regan can hear the faint note of awkward almost-hysteria underneath everything Brendon says, or if it's just that Spencer knows him too well and is listening out for it.

"We will mourn its passing," Spencer says, lightly, and runs his gaze down the menu. The server is heading their way and Spencer still hasn't figured out which of the extras he's getting with his burger. He decides on bacon and blue cheese and the largest fries they have on the side. And maybe onion rings. Fuck, he's hungry.

"Sad day, sad day," Brendon says, and Spencer lets out a breath, thinking about the bag from the toy store he has hidden in his trunk, and what it means, and if there's another way out of this that doesn't end with both of them getting hurt.

"The saddest," he agrees, bumping elbows with Brendon as the server takes their orders, and hopes that none of it shows on his face as he lets Brendon shuffle closer, resting his cheek against Spencer's shoulder. "So, did you guys figure out what you wanted to go see, yet? I hear there's this movie with an awesome soundtrack called _Jennifer_ _'_ _s Body_ -"

Brendon laughs. "Yeah," he says. "This one song's all about blow jobs, apparently."

"Isn't everything," Shane says, and waggles his eyebrows. Regan hits him in the arm, and Brendon slides his hand into Spencer's, and doesn't look at him.

—

Spencer starts to think he's actually making strides in the boyfriend department when Brendon doesn't run away from him as soon as they get in the house, after the movie and saying good night to Regan and Shane and the drive back to Brendon's condo. He's sort of expects Brendon to continue avoiding him, so it's a surprise when Brendon wanders off to get a glass of water, and then comes back into the living room, toeing his shoes off and sinking down on the couch next to Spencer.

"Hey," Spencer says, blinking at him.

"Hey," Brendon says. He sounds slightly sheepish but there's a defiant edge to his gaze, as though he's fully aware that he's been being a dick to Spencer and he's not going to apologize for it.

"What's up?" Spencer says, after a too long moment where Brendon's just kind of staring at him and Spencer's just staring back. There's a lot of things he wants to say to Brendon, but he doesn't know how to say them yet and most of them involve a topic that Spencer's sworn never to mention again. It's stupid, really, when he thinks about it. They're basically fighting over the elephant in the room, which sort of kills any attempt at conversation and reconciliation.

"Nothing," Brendon says eventually. He looks away, shaking his head and then turning back to Spencer. "Nothing's up. You want to watch tv?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, and ignores the warm feeling of happiness in his chest when Brendon curls his head onto Spencer's shoulder and settles in. It's been so long since they've touched each other in anything other than a perfunctory fashion, and Spencer misses it. He misses the smell of Brendon's hair and the way it tickles his chin when Brendon laughs at something outrageous on the television.

"I love this show," Spencer says very seriously as he watches Snookie get exceedingly drunk and then stumble around trying to find fried pickles on the boardwalk.

"Yup," Brendon agrees. "Although, I don't know, it's not really up there with Flavor of Love or anything."

"Nothing will ever be as good as Flavor of Love," Spencer points out, and Brendon nods against his shoulder.

They watch three episodes of Flavor of Love, and then they drink a few beers while watching Deadliest Catch, and then all of a sudden it's 2am and Brendon is standing up and stretching, feet planted firmly and shoulders wide as he tugs his arms up over his head.

"Bed," Brendon says, his voice cracking on a yawn. "It's time. It's kind of late."

"Yeah," Spencer says, gathering up the beers from the coffee table and dropping them off on the kitchen counter for later. He doesn't feel like dumping them out and rinsing them in the sink right now. "I'll meet you up there."

"No, just, come on," Brendon says, from the kitchen doorway. "It's late. Come to bed."

"Right," Spencer says, after a pause. It's not that he hasn't been waiting for Brendon to extend the olive branch, but something feels slightly off. All of this is a sudden, awkward attempt on Brendon's part to smooth things over, and Spencer knows that he should probably just take the opportunity and run with it but there's still something missing.

"Come on," Brendon says again, and Spencer nods, following him up the stairs. He tugs his clothes off and leaves them on the bedroom floor, doesn't bother brushing his teeth, and when Brendon climbs on top of him and kisses him Spencer just goes with it, letting his hands remap the territory they've forgotten.

Brendon's rough with him, a little more forceful than usual. It feels like he's staking a claim to this moment, like he's afraid it's going to slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

"Hey," Spencer whispers, when they pull apart to breathe. "Hey, hey. Brendon. It's okay. You're okay. We're okay." The phrases are comforting nonsense but the tone seems to calm Brendon down, and so Spencer whispers to him the whole night long— _you_ _'_ _re okay, we_ _'_ _re okay._ He presses his nose into the crook of Brendon's neck and holds on.

—

The next morning dawns bright and lazy, sun peeking through the curtains. Spencer wakes up to Brendon wrapped around him, head pillowed on Spencer's shoulder, breathing softly. He clings closer when Spencer tries to shift into a more comfortable position, and frowns in his sleep when Spencer tries to carefully rearrange them. It's like he's hanging on to Spencer for dear life.

 _We need to talk,_ Spencer thinks muzzily, and sets about extricating himself from Brendon so he can go make pancakes. He doesn't know how Brendon's going to react, and it might be awful, but he doesn't think it's necessarily going to be a repeat of that one horrible day. Brendon's usually sharp and vicious when he's feeling cornered, not scared. At least this way Spencer will have pancakes to eat after Brendon tears him a new one.

He's just cracking the eggs into the batter when Brendon appears behind him, nuzzling up to the back of Spencer's neck and tucking his arms around Spencer's waist. "Pancaaaaaakes," Brendon mumbles, sounding pleased. "Hurry upppp."

"This whole process goes a lot faster when I don't have someone attached to me," Spencer says, but he drops the egg shell into the trash and turns around in the circle of Brendon's arms so Brendon knows he's just kidding. Brendon leans up for a kiss, and his mouth is fresh and minty, which means he's _really_ sorry, and also probably about to angle for morning sex. There's a large part of Spencer that wants to just give in and let Brendon blow him in the kitchen, but he knows it's a bad idea. If they don't talk about this now, it's going to just simmer between them forever.

"Minty," Spencer says again, and Brendon nods. "We should eat those in bed," he says, giving Spencer a very obvious once-over and then flicking his eyes over to the bowl of pancake batter. "You want to?"

"Brendon—" Spencer says, and then he stops, because he doesn't even know what he wants to say. "Maybe not this morning," Spencer says, instead.

"No syrup on the sheets," Brendon says. "Cross my heart, etc."

"It's not the syrup," Spencer says.

"Then come on," Brendon says. "We can lie around naked and eat pancakes. And then I can blow you. What's not to love?"

"Can we talk about the other day?" Spencer blurts out, instead of responding to Brendon's question. He winces after he says it, as Brendon's face falls and he steps away from Spencer like he's been slapped.

"Fuck," Spencer says softly, resting his elbows on the counter. He scrubs his hands over his face, running his fingers through his hair when he reaches his temples. His hair is greasy. He needs a shower.

"I don't know what you want to talk about," Brendon says flatly. "What do you mean, the other day?"

"Brendon," Spencer says quietly, impatiently. "You've been avoiding the shit out of me ever since then. I'm not stupid. Everything's all fucked up, and you were so miserable, and now it's like nothing ever happened except it pretty obviously did, because you don't talk to me anymore."

"We talk," Brendon says. "What the fuck, Spencer. I just wanted to get some surfing in. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings by wanting to hang out with my _friends_."

"Don't fucking do this," Spencer says, looking up to give Brendon a glare. "I knew you were going to fucking do this. That's not what this is about and you know it."

"Then what it is about?" Brendon says, and his voice is definitely louder than it was before, almost on the edge of shouting. He raises his right hand and then drops it, frustrated, into the air between them. "What the fuck, Spence? Why can't you just leave this alone? I had a bad day. Everyone has them."

"That wasn't a bad day," Spencer says. "That was me seeing something I wasn't supposed to see, and now I just want to—"

"What?" Brendon says, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence. He's paler than he was a moment ago. "What did you just say?"

"I—I saw something I wasn't supposed to see," Spencer says, carefully. "Right?"

"Fuck this," Brendon says, shaking his head and storming out of the room. "No, you fucking didn't," Brendon says, calling over his shoulder, his stride tight and angry as he shoves his feet into his flipflops and grabs his keys. "You didn't see anything, Spence, and I don't know why you can't just _let it go_ —"

"Because I'm in love with you, asshole," Spencer yells, following Brendon as he heads towards the door. Brendon wrenches the front door open, and Spencer reaches over him and closes his palm around the thick wood, effectively blocking Brendon's retreat.

"Listen to me," Spencer says. "Just fucking—can you listen to me? Because you're _freaking out_ right now, and I just want to try and fucking help, okay? I just want to talk to you about this. It's okay, Brendon. Whatever you want, it's _okay._ "

"Let go of the fucking door," Brendon says coldly, and Spencer drops his palm without thinking. He's never heard Brendon sound quite that furious, not even back in Maryland.

"Don't try and follow me," is all Brendon says before he's hurrying through the doorway and jumping into his car in the driveway. He peels out of the driveway and Spencer watches him go and thinks _I could not have fucked that up more if I tried._

—

It takes Spencer five minutes to find his car keys, although he's relatively sure that he could have halved the time it took to find them if he hadn't spent the first two minutes trying to stop his hands from shaking. It's the worst fight he's ever had with Brendon, ever; it's the worst because Brendon is terrified and mean and so completely unable to deal with whatever's going on inside of his head that Spencer's _scared_. He's scared for them both, and for the way Brendon clung to him the night before, holding on like if he looked away too long, he'd turn around and Spencer wouldn't be there anymore.

That's the thing, Spencer thinks desperately. He's always going to fucking be here. He's not going anywhere, whatever the fuck is going on in Brendon's head. Whatever he wants, whatever he needs; Spencer is in this too deep to give up because Brendon needs something that he's never been able to ask for. He just—he's terrified that he won't be able to tell Brendon that and have him _listen_. He's scared Brendon won't be able to hear what he's trying to say.

"Fuck," he says, because he can only find one flip flop and Bogart won't leave him the fuck alone, bumping up against Spencer's ankles as he tries to find his keys down the back of the nightstand. He steals one of Brendon's flip flops, not caring that it doesn't match his and is too small, and bundles Bogart up into his arms. "Come with me," he says to Bogart, and Bogart whines, either uncomfortable or tense with the weird atmosphere in the house. "Maybe you can calm him down." _Or stay with him when all this is done_ , he thinks, and he hurries down the stairs and out the front door and into the driveway.

He doesn't know where the fuck Brendon's gone, so he tries for the music store first, the place Brendon gets all his sheet music for when he's doing nothing but playing the piano all day long. He slows down to stake out the parking lot, but Brendon's car isn't there and there isn't anywhere else for him to park, so he drives by the diner where they sometimes go for breakfast instead, and then to the beach where they all hang out and go surfing together. He isn't there either, and Spencer's starting to feel desperate when he remembers the little beach that he and Brendon have been to sometimes, just the two of them. They'd walked Bogart and made out on the beach, not caring if anyone had been around to see them.

He turns the car around and drives up the coast.

"We'll find him, huh, Bogart?" he says, chewing on his lip as he waits for the stoplight to change. "And everything's going to be fine." It isn't like he believes it, but it's what he wants. He wants it so much.

—

Brendon's standing by the water's edge, hands in his pockets, the tide coming in over his flip flops. He doesn't move away as the water laps around his ankles.

Spencer takes a deep breath, and holds Bogart a little tighter. He scrabbles in his arms, desperate to get down. He hadn't remembered Bogart's leash, so he keeps a hold of him until he's sure there are no other dogs around for him to get entangled with. Bogart's friendly and inquisitive and totally unaware of his size in comparison to other dogs, which has gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. There's nobody around, though, at least nobody with a dog, so he lets him down and he barks excitedly, already setting off across the sand to where Brendon's standing.

He turns around at the sound of his bark, and for a moment, the briefest moment, everything feels fine. Brendon's smiling at his dog, crouching down and opening his arms wide, and Bogart's bounding into his arms, barking like he hasn't seen him in hours, and licking his cheek. Spencer walks a little closer, hands stuffed in the pockets of his shorts. He tries to smile, and Brendon looks down at his dog, ruffling her ears before standing up. Bogart runs around his feet, darting into the water and back again, shaking himself dry. He's always like this on the beach, both in love with and terrified of the water.

"Hi," Spencer says, awkwardly.

"I told you not to fucking follow me," Brendon says, harshly. His mouth is set in a thin line, and Spencer's worried, because he doesn't recognize this Brendon. He thought he knew Brendon, knew all the sharp edges and the vicious cuts he can dole out when he's cornered and afraid and something he loves is at risk. He'd thought he'd seen it all over the years, but this—harsh, and sharp, and cornered like a wounded animal—this is new.

Spencer holds his hands up. "I'm always going to come after you," he says, finally.

"Even though I tell you not to?" Brendon asks.

Spencer nods. "Even then. Pretty much always," he says. Then, because he can't not, he says, "Brendon—we still need to talk."

"Oh, for— _fuck_ ," Brendon snaps. "Can't you just leave it alone? It's no big deal, it's nothing to do with you and we don't need to talk about it, okay? Stop making it into some huge big deal, and stop trying to talk about it with me, Spencer."

"I'm sorry I walked in on you that day," Spencer says. "No, listen," he goes on, when Brendon looks like he's about to butt in, or shout, or something worse. Spencer's half-inclined to believe that Brendon's about to break up with him, just so they don't have to talk about this anymore. "I'm sorry, I'm _really_ fucking sorry. But, like—" he trails off, because he has no idea what he's supposed to say to make this any better. He rubs his forehead and lets out a breath, trying to push his hair out of his eyes. The breeze off the water keeps blowing it into his face. "We've got to talk about this, B."

"We _don_ _'_ _t_ ," Brendon says desperately, and Brendon's the angriest that Spencer's ever seen him, furious and all sharp lines. "Just, I don't know. _Leave it_. It's not going to happen again, okay? Happy now? Let's just go back to the way things were. Stop fucking bugging me all the time, Spence. Is this what it's going to be like? You and me?"

"I'm not happy," Spencer says. His heart's beating loud in his chest. He's scared.

Brendon's head shoots up. "What?" he says sharply. His breath sounds like it's all caught in his throat, choked-off and tight.

"I don't _want_ you to never do it again," Spencer says, before he can think better of it. "You were so fucking happy, B, and I walked in on you and I fucking screwed everything up, and I'm _sorry_. I'm sorry I fucked everything up."

Brendon looks a strange mix of bewildered and furious. "What?" he says again.

"I'm sorry," Spencer says. He hopes that if he says it enough Brendon will start to believe it. "I don't want you to stop doing whatever the fuck you need to do to make you happy, but we still need to talk. We need to talk, Brendon."

"I have—I don't—" Brendon's voice catches, and his fists clench by his sides. Bogart makes another run at the water, all four paws hitting the water's edge before she darts back and shakes herself off by Brendon's feet.

"Please don't be scared," Spencer says, because he's hated every moment of the sharp, tangible edge of Brendon's fear. He never wants Brendon to be scared of him again, not ever.

"I'm not," Brendon lies. "I just have no idea what you're talking about." He tilts his chin up, brave and so scared it shows in every tense line of his body. Spencer wants to reach out and touch him, rub his hands over Brendon's biceps until his shoulders relax.

Spencer swallows, and thinks about the bag in his trunk from yesterday's shopping trip.

"I've got—" he stops. "I bought you something," he says finally. "If I go get it from the car, will you still be here when I get back?"

Brendon shrugs, and looks away. "I guess," he says softly.

"If you think I could ever leave you, you're so fucking wrong," Spencer says, after a moment. Sometimes he thinks Brendon doesn't know. They've never discussed the future, but for Spencer this is it. Maybe they should talk about that too, but for now he's just laying it all out on the table for Brendon to do with as he wants. He has no idea what Brendon needs to hear, but there are some things Spencer can't keep hidden anymore.

Brendon blinks, and rubs his sleeve over his eyes. "I wasn't—" he said. "You've got to drop this, Spencer. It's just. It's nothing, Spence. I swear. It's nothing."

Spencer lets out a long breath. He wants to say, _stop lying to me_ , but he can't. He couldn't. "I'll be back in a minute," he says, and Brendon nods. He's still all sharp corners and tense lines, and Spencer wants to press his thumbs into Brendon's skin and help him to breathe easier. "One minute," he repeats, and Brendon swallows and looks the other way. He shakes his head—at Spencer or the universe, Spencer doesn't know—and then he walks over and sits down maybe ten feet away, near a pile of driftwood that's sticking out of the sand. Spencer waits a minute, two minutes, but apparently Brendon doesn't feel like acknowledging Spencer's existence any longer. He's looking directly out to sea, arms clasped around his knees, staring into the tide. The set of his shoulders is still tense, tight with anger, but there's a tinge of sadness in his expression that wasn't there before.

Spencer bites his lip and walks over to his car, unlocking his trunk with a click. The toy is still in its bag, boxy and unassuming through the plastic. Spencer pulls it out of the bag and then takes out his pocketknife, slicing through the tape on the box. It takes him a while to get the damn thing out, because apparently since he was a kid the proper preservation of toys within their cardboard boxes has become a topic of national security or some shit, but once he does, once he holds it up to the light, he thinks he made the right choice.

Spencer tucks it under his arm, trudging across the sand to where Brendon's sitting and watching him approach. He thinks about saying something intelligent, but in the end he just holds it out so Brendon can see.

There's a long pause.

"That's a firetruck," Brendon says flatly.

"Yes," Spencer says.

"The fuck?" Brendon says, squinting up at him. "The actual fuck is wrong with you, dude?"

"It's for you," Spencer says, wincing. "I, uh. Fuck, Brendon, I don't know. It seemed like...something you might like." He feels really stupid holding the firetruck out in front of him. Brendon needs to either take it or tell him to fuck off, because seriously, it's kind of heavy.

"Something I might like," Brendon says, looking away from Spencer, towards the waves. "Really."

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Fuck, Brendon. Come on. You won't fucking talk to me and I didn't know what to do and I found some stuff on the internet—"

Brendon whips his head around. "You looked on the internet?" Brendon says, and his voice has gone all high and scared. "What the fuck, Spence. Some of that shit is really weird."

"Yeah," Spencer agrees. He waits a minute, but now Brendon's not even making eye contact so Spencer just gives up and sits down next to him, placing the fire truck next to Brendon's leg. "Some of it is kind of weird," Spencer says. "But I'm pretty sure that to the people who like it, it's not weird."

"Don't fucking do this," Brendon murmurs, staring out into the waves.

"I'm not doing anything," Spencer says. "I'm telling you that whatever you want, it's okay."

"I tried," Brendon says quietly, so soft that Spencer has to strain to hear it. "Just remember that, okay? When this all goes to shit and we're not even speaking to each other anymore because you're disgusted by me. I tried to protect you from this. I didn't want you to know."

"Brendon," Spencer says, horrified. "Don't—fuck, don't say that. You're not disgusting, Jesus."

"I figured if I just did it by myself, it would be okay," Brendon says quietly, and Spencer's starting to get the feeling that Brendon's just talking to himself, gearing up for a spiral of misery and self-hatred, and Spencer is going to put a stop to that right fucking now if it kills him.

"Look, do you want one of those creepy latex baby doll masks with the big eyes and shit?" Spencer says, fed up, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt the answer will be no because Brendon has a weird aversion to plastic sometimes and he can't imagine him ever liking anything made out of latex. "Because seriously, unless that's what you want, it's _fine_."

"What?" Brendon says, turning to blink at him in confusion. "They make those?"

"I told you," Spencer says uncomfortably. "I googled things. There were a lot of cribs. And uh, diapers." He's not even remotely expecting it, but Brendon gives a short, sharp laugh at his words.

"No," Brendon says. "You're right. I don't want a latex baby mask. That is definitely something I don't want."

"But you want the rest of it?" Spencer says, giving Brendon a side-long glance. Brendon looks so tired lately, worn-thin around the edges.

"Not cribs," Brendon says shortly. "Not diapers and shit. No. That's not—definitely not my thing. I don't really get all of that shit. I think it's weird."

"Right," Spencer says. "But the toys—"

"Yeah," Brendon says quietly. "Kinda."

"Okay," Spencer says, and processes that for a moment. "So you like to pretend to be—" _little_ , Spencer thinks, and then he can't decide if that's too much too soon, and then he decides he doesn't care. "You like to pretend to be little," Spencer says, looking side-long at Brendon. "What's the big deal?"

"Are you fucking kidding?" Brendon says, giving Spencer an incredulous glance. "Uh, there's a lot of shit that's wrong with that. Starting with the fact that I'm an adult, and it's _weird,_ and I should be able to handle all of my stress without needing to fucking—whatever. Pretend."

"Notice how I'm not agreeing with you," Spencer points out. "Because I'm not. There's nothing wrong with it, Brendon. We live fucking stressful ass lives. I like to kill zombies in video games. YOU like to kill zombies in video games. We like to smoke up and get high and drink beers and go surfing and sometimes maybe you want to hang out and be a little boy and that's _fine,_ " Spencer says, and as soon as the words come out of his mouth he knows it's the absolute truth. It _is_ fine.

"It's _weird_ ," Brendon says again, but he sounds a more uncertain about it than he did a minute ago.

Spencer shrugs. "I'm not freaked out by it," he says. "I don't think it's weird."

Brendon digs his heel into the sand. "You're the only one, then."

"Me and the internet," Spencer says.

"The _internet_ ," Brendon says. He sounds a little shaky.

"Seriously, though," Spencer bumps his knee into Brendon's. "What you want—it's totally fine, B. I'll even hang out with you when you're little, if you want," he offers. Brendon looks almost eager for a second, his expression cradling a strange sort of hope in his gaze, but then he shakes his head, looking away.

"I don't—I don't think so," Brendon says, swallowing hard. "I mean—fuck, Spence. I've never even. I've been doing this for as long as I can remember, and I've never had anyone find out," Brendon says. "It's going to take me a while to like. Deal with you knowing about it. To deal with the fact that you don't think it's weird. "

"I don't," Spencer says, and doesn't mention the way his chest feels right now, light and soft and warm. He doesn't mention the blogs or the bat sandwiches or the lunchboxes because this right here is fucking progress, and Spencer knows not to press his luck. He nudges the firetruck towards Brendon's leg instead, sensing an opening.

"So, do you even want your firetruck?" Spencer says. He brushes some sand off the hood. There's sand all over it because they're at the fucking beach, but it's something to do with his hands. "Because it's a pretty cool firetruck. Like, if you don't want it, I'm going to keep it." Spencer pushes it towards Brendon, bumping up against Brendon's bare calf, and watches as something in Brendon's gaze softens as he looks as it.

"I don't want it," Brendon says, but now he sounds unsure.

"It makes beeping noises," Spencer says. "It has a siren."

"Oh," Brendon says softly, and just for a moment, the wall of fear and anger between them is gone. He looks achingly young as he looks over at Spencer, and something in Spencer's chest _pings_ in recognition. Spencer ignores it. "Really?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Like, seriously, I'm going to keep it even if you don't want it. But I was thinking maybe we could both keep it. Just in case."

"Just in case," Brendon says, biting his lip and nodding slowly. Above them, the morning haze is starting to burn off; they need to leave soon if they don't want to get burnt, but Spencer isn't willing to interrupt this fragile peace. He shuffles closer, instead, carefully slipping his hand into Brendon's. It takes Brendon a few moments, but then he's tentatively curling his fingers around Spencer's palm.

"So we're okay?" Spencer says softly, even though he thinks he knows the answer.

"We're okay," Brendon agrees, equally soft. "Yeah. We're okay."

 

_November 2009_

The restaurant Spencer picks for their celebratory "hey, we wrote a song!" dinner is romantic and low-lit without also being so dark that he can't read the menu, so Spencer's counting it as a win.

"Did you really pick this place off of that iPhone app?" Brendon says, frowning at the interior. "Because I could swear we've been here before."

"Probably," Spencer agrees. "But whatever. We need drinks. We wrote a fucking song. We're getting extremely drunk tonight."

"Is that why you insisted we take a cab from the studio?" Brendon says, grinning at Spencer over the drinks menu.

"Yes," Spencer says. "And it's why we will be taking a cab home afterwards to get more drunk. Because we wrote a goddamn song, and it's good, and we are awesome." His entire chest feels light. It's stupid, because Spencer has helped write a lot of songs in his life, but he's never written one with just Brendon. It's never made him feel as happy as he does right now, safe in the knowledge that no matter what happens, they can turn out an album together.

"We _are_ awesome," Brendon says in satisfaction, and then looks down at his menu. He's still looking down at the menu a moment later, when Spencer feels Brendon's foot curl around his under the table, and the brush of his ankle against his. "I'm thinking—" Brendon says, running one finger down the length of the menu, "the vegetarian options sound pretty nice. Look at that one, with the zucchini."

"You don't like zucchini," Spencer points out, trying not to focus on the fact that his stomach is somersaulting, flipping over and over and over, just from Brendon's proximity, and because they _wrote a song_. An actual song, with words and a melody and more than just three lines of rhythm and a rhyming couplet.

"I didn't like zucchini that one time we had that thing that tasted like feet," Brendon says, his ankle brushing Spencer's. It's on purpose, Spencer knows, and he feels that frisson of excitement that says, _we_ _'_ _re here, and we_ _'_ _re doing this._ Brendon's his, and it makes Spencer feel incredible. Brendon wants him back. "I like normal zucchini, that isn't like a, I don't know, a mush. What the hell was that thing that we had anyway?"

Spencer remembers the meal, in some vegetarian restaurant on the road, somewhere—he has no idea where, but he remembers the way the wait staff looked at them like they were hobos, even when they were all ordering three courses and drinks to go alongside—and he remembers Brendon's face as he'd taken the first bite of his vegetable pot pie. After that, Spencer hadn't wanted to take a bite himself, but he'd had to, and it had been bad. A ton of vegetables and lentils and squash, all mushed up like baby food, but with no flavor at all.

"Vegetable pot pie, I think," Spencer says, trying to focus on the menu. "Which one are you looking at?"

"The one with the cheese," Brendon says, pointing haphazardly across at Spencer's menu. "I want to eat all of the cheese in the world. You want to share appetizers? They have chicken. And dumplings. What even is this place? It has the best food."

"I laid it all on especially for you," Spencer says, without much thinking what that might sound like to Brendon. He stops looking at his menu after a minute, and when he looks up, he finds Brendon's gaze on his, eyes shining.

"We wrote a song," Brendon says, seemingly apropos of nothing, but Spencer knows where he's coming from. He feels lighter than air, excited and pleased and relieved. It wasn't that he didn't have faith in Brendon, because he _did_ , but it was good to know that together they could make something that sounded like music.

"We _did_ ," Spencer says, and he grins. Brendon grins back, and when the waiter comes back, they order everything they've glanced at, and a bottle of wine to share.

—

"So," Spencer says, while they're waiting for the desserts. His bottle of wine is empty. "How about those firetrucks, huh?"

Brendon's eyes widen, and he stares at Spencer with his mouth open. Spencer is inclined to believe that maybe he should have built up to it gently, or at least given it some kind of preamble.

"Well," Spencer amends. "That one particular firetruck we haven't talked about in a couple of weeks. That firetruck."

"How's the firetruck," Brendon says, a little flatly. His cheeks are pink.

"Yep," Spencer says. "I was going to be subtle but we're done with our second bottle of wine. I figured we could just, you know, talk about it."

Brendon rolls his eyes, and doesn't resist the temptation to look around and see if anyone else is listening. Luckily the restaurant is quiet and spacious and kind of dark, so there's no one around and nobody listening.

"We are not talking about it here," Brendon says in a low voice.

"Well," Spencer says, rolling his shoulders. "We're not talking about it anywhere else, either, and we're kind of drunk and I kind of love you a whole lot, and I want to talk to you about firetrucks. One firetruck. That one firetruck that I got you."

"Spencer," Brendon says tightly.

"No, seriously," Spencer says. "Nobody knows what we're talking about, and nobody's listening, and I just wanted to say—" he stops, and tries to hook his foot around Brendon's. He is maybe more drunk than he thought, either that or Brendon's ankle feels weird. He is, he realizes, trying to play footsie with the table leg. "That's not you." He frowns, and re-positions himself so that he really is touching Brendon's leg this time. "I bought that firetruck for you, and I figured it was about time we talked about you getting to, you know," he lowers his voice, "—play with it."

"Oh god," Brendon says, cheeks flushed. "You're so drunk. When did you get so drunk?"

"You're drunk," Spencer says petulantly. "We're both drunk. We wrote a song."

"We did," Brendon says, still embarrassed. "An awesome song."

"An _awesome_ song," Spencer repeats. "Do you want to sing it now?"

Brendon snorts. "No," he says, but he's laughing again, which Spencer counts as a win.

"Let's sing it when we get home," Spencer says. "Together." He curls his fingers into Brendon's, because he likes it when he gets to touch Brendon. "Then we can talk about firetrucks."

Brendon doesn't let go of Spencer's hand, but it's close. "Spencer," he says.

Spencer sighs. "It's not weird," he says, softly. "I want you to know that. I keep telling you but I don't think you listen."

Brendon doesn't say anything for a while. "I listen," he says, finally. "I just—I don't know how to respond to this. What am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know," Spencer says. "Do you want me to be there? I can be there. If you want me to be."

Brendon doesn't look up from the tablecloth. "No," he says. "I mean, thank you. That's really great of you, but—" he stumbles over his words. "I don't know that I could do it in front of you. Like—get myself there. Where I need to be. Not this time."

Spencer squeezes Brendon's hand. "Okay," he says. "You think it might be okay if you were upstairs and I was downstairs? You'd be by yourself."

Brendon thinks about it for a minute. "That might work," he says, finally.

"Okay," Spencer says. "When do you want to do it? Is tomorrow too soon?" He's vaguely tempted to start singing _tomorrow! tomorrow! I love you, tomorrow_ , which is both a sign that he's had _way_ too much to drink, and also a sign that there's maybe more to this thing with Brendon than what he's been able to put a name to so far. He taps his foot against the table leg. Over on the other side of the restaurant he can see their server come out with two plates, which are probably their desserts.

"I suppose," Brendon says. "You think you're still going to be okay with this in the morning?"

"I bought you the firetruck," Spencer says. "I'm okay with this."

"Okay," Brendon says, softly. "Tomorrow." He waits while the server puts their plates down in front of them, Brendon's chocolate cheesecake looking a little more tempting then Spencer's cocoa-dusted meringue. "Do we get to talk about something else now?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Do you want to swap desserts? Yours is way better than mine."

Brendon makes a face. "No way," he says, and then he cuts off a tiny piece with the side of his fork. "Here, open up. I'm sharing."

Spencer opens his mouth, and grins. "I like it when you share," he says, and Brendon rolls his eyes, kicking him under the table.

"Shut up," he says, and cuts Spencer another piece.

—

"You're drunk," Brendon says, after Spencer accidentally trips over his own feet on his way into the cab. There was a _thing_. On the floor. Where his feet were. Whatever. Air is dangerous.

"Am not," Spencer says, frowning and sliding across the seat so that his knee is all pressed up against Brendon's in the back of the cab. "And if I'm drunk you must be drunk. Why aren't you drunk?"

Brendon rolls his eyes and slides his hand into Spencer's, squeezing. "Because _somebody_ ordered another bottle of wine while I was in the bathroom," he says. "Somebody, mentioning no names, but _Spencer James Smith—_ somebody drank most of that bottle by themselves, because they were too drunk to share."

"Liar," Spencer says, and leans in so that he can lick at Brendon's jaw. Brendon's skin is warm and a little rough with stubble, and underneath all of that is the faint salty-hot taste of Brendon's skin and the faded reminder of his aftershave. Spencer licks his ear. "You drank it too."

"I did," Brendon agrees, tilting his head to one side so that he can scratch at his neck. "Spencer, no, we're not making out in the back of the cab. We're not teenagers—"

Spencer kisses the corner of Brendon's mouth. He can taste wine and chocolate. "Mmmm," he says, which is the extent of his argument to change Brendon's mind. He's too busy hooking his fingers clumsily into Brendon's belt loops, and pressing kiss after kiss to Brendon's mouth.

After a moment, Brendon kisses him back. "Oh, whatever," Brendon says, against Spencer's mouth. "Fuck responsibility. Let's make out in the back of the cab."

"Awesome," Spencer says, and slides his hand under Brendon's shirt.

It is not Spencer's fault that he doesn't hear the cab driver clearing his throat, and it is even less his fault that he doesn't recognize the fact that they've pulled up outside their place. It might be his fault that he tries to give him all the cash in his wallet, but Brendon stops him, rolling his eyes and plucking out a handful of bills from the wad Spencer has in his hand.

"Get out of the car, Spence," Brendon says, poking Spencer in the side.

"Okay, okay," Spencer grumbles, sliding out. "Have a nice night, Mr. Cab Driver."

"Jesus," Brendon says, bundling Spencer out of the car, and letting the door swing closed behind them. The cab speeds off into the night. "You're never allowed wine again. Not ever."

"Liar," Spencer says complacently. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Can there be more making out yet?"

"Inside," Brendon says. "Fuck, how come I'm really fucking drunk and yet you make me look sober?"

"Skill," Spencer says. "Come here and let me rub my dick on you."

Brendon chokes, pushing him up the driveway and onto the porch. He fumbles with the key in the lock. "That is not sexy. You are not sexy. You are drunk, and you're not sexy, and—" he trails off as Spencer presses him up against the door and slides his tongue over Brendon's bottom lip.

"It's a little bit sexy," Spencer says petulantly, in between nipping at Brendon's lip with his teeth. He steadies himself with one hand on the door, and one hand in Brendon's hair, drawing him in for a kiss.

"Okay, okay," Brendon says, fumbling behind him. Spencer doesn't have a clue what he's doing until the door swings out behind them and they stumble clumsily through the door and into the hallway, Spencer grabbing onto Brendon's waist to keep from falling over. Bogart yelps excitedly, barreling into the hall and into Brendon's legs, desperate to welcome them home.

"Cockblock," Spencer says, under his breath.

Brendon just snorts and presses his mouth to the underside of Spencer's jaw, kicking the door shut behind them. "Our neighbors love us."

"Our neighbors think we're sexy as hell," Spencer says, with all the superiority that comes with knowing that no one can see into their yard. Brendon's realtor was awesome. "Your realtor was an awesome dude."

"Woman," Brendon corrects. "She was an awesome dude-ette." He laughs again. "Dudette."

"Your mom's a dudette," Spencer says, grinning. He ducks down to scoop Bogart up, pressing a kiss to Bogart's nose. "Hey, baby."

"He says hey right back," Brendon says. "I'm going to get us some water, and then I'm going to come back and we're going to make out on the couch."

"Awesome," Spencer says. His head is starting to swim. The couch sounds like a good idea. "I think that wine was evil. Was it evil wine?"

"Maybe," Brendon agrees. "This won't take long. Go sit down."

Spencer goes and sits down, just like Brendon told him to, and while he's waiting, he lets Bogart sit on his stomach while he scritches his ears. "Good dog," he says, "good boy."

"He's the best dog," Brendon says, coming back in with bottles of water from the fridge and a handful of Tylenol. "Drink this, and take those, and then kiss me."

"We'll have to move the dog first," Spencer points out, but he dutifully swallows the Tylenol and downs three quarters of one of the bottles of water in one go.

"Good thing I brought spares," Brendon says, handing Spencer another bottle.

"Come sit down," Spencer says, tugging on Brendon's sleeve. "And take your vest off. It's an awesome vest and you look hot, but it's easier to make out with you when you're not in it." He blinks down at Bogart, who's cheerfully staring at him with his tongue hanging out. "You're in the way."

"We love you, Bogie," Brendon says sympathetically, "but you are being a cockblock. Go sit on your bed, baby."

Bogart whines, and Brendon produces a doggy treat from who knows where and holds it out for Bogart to lick.

"That's right," Brendon says. "We are bribing you so we can have happy makeout time. Don't tell the teachers at puppy school."

Spencer snorts, and he's still laughing when Brendon bundles Bogart out and into the hallway, and closes the door behind him.

"I feel bad," Brendon complains, collapsing on the couch on top of Spencer with an _oomph_. "Is he going to have to take his issues to doggy therapy because of me?"

"Because of us," Spencer says. "We'll take him to the beach and play catch with him," he says. "I think he'll forgive you."

"Hope so," Brendon says, sitting back and drinking half the water in one go. "Fuck, am going to need to go to the bathroom in about five seconds after this."

"Hold it," Spencer says, rolling his eyes. Kissing Brendon suddenly seems like the number one most important thing in the whole world. "Get down here and kiss me."

Brendon grins and drops his vest on the floor. His shirt is hanging out of his pants, rumpled, and now that he's up close, Spencer can see the sweat marks from their day in the studio, all the effort and work and energy that went into completing their first song.

"We wrote a _song_ ," he says, softly, stroking his fingers in Brendon's hair. "We wrote a motherfucking _song_."

"A motherfucking _awesome_ song," Brendon corrects, eyes bright. He ducks his head and rubs his nose against Spencer's cheek. Spencer lets his fingers stroke through Brendon's hair, and when Brendon shifts a little, getting more comfortable and leaning against the back of the couch, Spencer touches at Brendon's jaw and covers Brendon's mouth with his own.

Brendon kisses him easily, tasting more like wine than anything else, and Spencer chases the taste lazily, curling his fingers in Brendon's hair and holding him close. Brendon's hands find their way under Spencer's shirt, and Spencer - who is kind of ticklish in the small of his back - wriggles, like he's unable to help himself.

He feels Brendon's smile against his own.

"Hi," he says, as Brendon continues to stroke him under his shirt.

"Hi right back," Brendon says, still smiling. Seeing Brendon smile still makes Spencer's heart beat faster, and he's so relieved that Brendon's relaxed and happy after everything that they've been through recently, that he can't help but kiss him again.

They make out for ages, until they hear Bogart in the hallway, chasing a chewtoy like a kickball up and down the hallway, and Brendon buries his face in the hollow of Spencer's shoulder. "Our dog is such a cockblock."

Spencer slides his hands under the waistband of Brendon's pants, stroking Brendon's ass. "Let me take you upstairs and fuck you," he says, mouth pressed to Brendon's temple, and Brendon shivers in his arms.

"You say the most romantic things," he tells Spencer, kissing his way along Spencer's jaw.

"I know, it's a skill I've honed." He grins. "Wait until I start quoting rap lyrics at you. I should have done that in the restaurant. Then you'd have known I wanted your ass."

Brendon sneaks a hand between them, and cups Spencer's dick through his pants. "I already know."

Spencer sucks in a breath. "Come on," he says. "Upstairs and naked."

"Oh," Brendon says. "How could anyone resist?" He shoves at Spencer, making him move so that he can clamber over the end of the couch, getting to the door first and discarding his shirt on the floor.

"Bogart will chew that," Spencer says, picking it up and chucking it at the couch. "You like that shirt."

"Not as much as I like sex with you," Brendon throws over his shoulder, already half way up the stairs. Bogart - curled up on his bed - thumps his tail and watches them, all the time chewing happily on his toy. Spencer sometimes wonders what it would be like to be a dog, and to get such satisfaction out of chewing on a stuffed iguana for a hundred hours a day. He pets Bogart's head on the way past, tugging off his shirt and leaving it over the banister as he takes the stairs two at a time, chasing Brendon into the bedroom.

Brendon's already kicking off his pants, tugging off his socks, and pushing his briefs down so that his dick bounces free. Fuck, Spencer loves Brendon's dick. He unbuttons his pants, leaving a trail of clothes from the bedroom door to the bed, and jumps on the bed.

Brendon is sprawled on the pillows, arms above his head. "Hey, baby," he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Spencer snorts, and moves to cover Brendon's body with his own, crawling over him and catching Brendon's mouth in a kiss. "You're so fucking hot," he tells him in between kisses, sliding his hand down between them both and circling Brendon's dick with his fist. He's not as drunk as he was earlier, but he's still buzzed, happy and kind of excited to be this close to Brendon after everything. Today, the song, the meal, the past few weeks. Everything.

"Yeah, yeah," Brendon says, rolling his eyes and dragging Spencer's attention back to the here and now. "I bet you say that to all the boys."

"Every single one," Spencer confirms, biting at Brendon's jaw. He leaves a trail of kisses all the way down Brendon's throat and down to his stomach, until he can take Brendon's dick in his mouth.

"Fuck," Brendon says, hands tangling in Spencer's hair as Spencer wraps his fingers around the base and mouths slowly at the tip. Brendon can't keep still; his fingers twist in Spencer's hair as Spencer blows him, lazy and slow and familiar. He nudges Brendon's thighs apart with his finger, and Brendon goes easily, letting Spencer cup his balls and roll them in his palm.

Brendon groans, and shifts his legs a little further apart. Spencer grins around Brendon's dick, and Brendon's hands tighten in his hair, just a little.

"Spence-" Brendon gasps, as Spencer strokes his way behind Brendon's balls, edging back towards his ass really fucking slowly. "Hurry up."

"No," Spencer says, through the time-honored way of trying to shake his head, grin, and say no, all at the same time as trying to blow Brendon. It doesn't work, and Brendon's dick slides out of Spencer's mouth. It's red and wet and part of Spencer wants to take him straight back down again, but another part of him wants to finger Brendon open even more than he wants to just blow him. Spencer sits back on his heels for a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he reaches over for the lube and the condoms on the nightstand. Spencer doesn't mind fucking Brendon wearing a condom, but he doesn't—and hasn't ever—liked the process of getting a condom on when he's drunk. He might have awesome control over his drums and his kit and his rhythm when he's had a bit to drunk, but his condom coordination is for shit.

"My condom coordination sucks," he says, finally, once he's torn it open and failed to unroll the condom the right way.

Brendon just grins, and leans in, pressing his mouth to Spencer's. Spencer chases the sweet taste of Brendon's mouth, forgetting about the half open condom in his hand.

"Give it to me," Brendon says, after half a dozen kisses. "Let me put it on."

Spencer shivers, because he loves it when Brendon touches him. _Loves_ it. "Yeah," he says, and he hands it over, so that Brendon can duck down and kiss the tip of Spencer's dick before sliding the condom—expertly, if a little drunkenly—down over Spencer's erection.

"There," he says. "Now you can fuck me."

"You offer me the world on a plate," Spencer says dryly. Inside, his heart is beating wildly, and his enthusiasm for getting to fuck Brendon isn't tempered by the amount of alcohol they've consumed between the two of them, or by the proximity of the pillows. "How do you want it?"

"Like this," Brendon says, stretching lazily on the sheets, arms above his head. Spencer loves it when Brendon's all laid out for him like this; he wants to touch him everywhere. Brendon rocks his hips up, and reaches for Spencer, sliding his hands down Spencer's sides so that he catches his breath. Spencer really loves it when they get to have sex like this, where he can see Brendon's face and lean down and kiss him.

Spencer nudges Brendon's legs apart and reaches for the lube, squeezing it onto his fingers and circling Brendon's hole with his fingertips. Brendon shivers, bringing his knees up so that the angle is better, and Spencer ducks down to press his mouth to Brendon's balls as he fingers him open. Spencer can finger Brendon for hours, and with all the wine he's drunk, he's not in any rush. Neither's Brendon, if his soft, quiet hitches of breath are anything to go by, and the way his hands are sliding in Spencer's hair. There's no urgency to the way either of them are moving, even though Spencer's hard, and his heart's beating fast, and somewhere at the back of his mind there's an awareness of an orgasm slowly building.

"Love you," Spencer says, pressing his mouth to the inside of Brendon's thigh. Brendon's muscles quiver beneath Spencer's tongue as he continues to finger Brendon, sliding in another finger beside the first. Brendon's hands tighten in Spencer's hair, and Spencer is reminded, not for the first time, how close they came to screwing everything up, and losing each other. They're on the edge of something potentially huge, and every time Spencer thinks about the firetruck, and Brendon, and _tomorrow_ , his heartbeat speeds up. Spencer wonders what Brendon needs from him to make him believe that he has nothing to be afraid of, and can't come up with anything. The only reassurance he can give him right now is this—the way he feels about him and the way he's showing him right this second. He kisses Brendon's thigh again, the curve of his hip, the underside of his dick. "Really fucking love you."

"Yeah," Brendon breathes, as Spencer's thumb strokes at the sensitive skin behind his balls, and Brendon's fingers tangle in Spencer's hair. "Love you too."

Spencer stretches up to catch Brendon's mouth in a kiss, his fingers sliding out of Brendon's ass; Brendon kisses him back, hard, and the mood is shifting beneath them, Spencer can feel it. What had been slow and lazy was becoming hurried and urgent. He kisses Brendon again, and then shifts back on to his knees, checking the condom before lining himself up, the tip of his dick pressed up against Brendon's ass. Brendon moves a little, getting himself more comfortable, catching his knees with his hands.

"Please," he says, which means _now,_ and _more_. "Please."

Spencer presses inside, slowly at first, then a little faster, letting out a groan as Brendon's muscles contract around his dick. There is no feeling on earth like this, he thinks, and he starts to move, bracing himself on the sheets with a shaking hand.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Brendon manages, his voice catching. He tilts his head back, the taut line of his throat making Spencer want to come right here, right now. "Don't fucking stop."

Spencer has no intention of stopping. He'd go on forever, if he could. He pushes in, and out, and in again; it's so hot, and so intimate, and he feels stupidly like if he could crawl up inside of Brendon and be a part of him right now, he would. It's everything.

He loves it when they can make it last for ages, when everything gets lost in the way they are together on the sheets, caught up and a part of one another, when there's nothing but the way Spencer's dick slides in and out as he fucks him. Brendon's babbling, telling Spencer over and over how much he wants this, wants _him_ , but Spencer isn't listening. He's reduced to one thing, to the orgasm building in his belly. Brendon comes without even touching his dick, grabbing Spencer's arm and squeezing. It's almost too much.

"Fuck, Spencer," Brendon tells him. "Fuck." His come streaks his stomach, and Spencer wants to run his tongue across Brendon's skin, tasting it all. He's so fucking filthy sometimes; he has no idea where he's hidden it all these years, but it keeps coming out whenever he's with Brendon. He wants to lick up Brendon's come, and then kiss him, make out with him until the taste is faint on his tongue. Spencer smears his hand across Brendon's stomach instead, bringing his palm up to his mouth and licking.

Brendon whines then, reaching for Spencer, his skin flushed pink and pretty after his orgasm. Spencer's so close he can feel it, so fucking close to the edge that it's like he's balancing on the brink.

When he comes, it's hard and fast and breathless and desperate. He can't breathe; all he can concentrate on is the way his orgasm crashes through him like a wave. He feels—he's in love. He's so in love he can't see straight.

He pulls out after a while, and tugs off the condom and ties it in a knot, dropping it on the floor by the side of the bed. The trash can is too far away. His limbs feel sluggish and heavy, and he waits as Brendon stretches out his cramped muscles before pressing himself to Brendon's side and catching his mouth in a sleepy, hot kiss.

He tries to stay awake, but Brendon's arms are wrapped around him, and his head is pillowed on Brendon's shoulder, and after a while he lets himself drift off, hot and sticky and still a little drunk.

Brendon drops a kiss to the top of Spencer's head, and that's the last thing Spencer remembers before he falls asleep.

—

"So," Spencer says the next morning, after breakfast has been made and pancakes have been cooked and Brendon has managed to cover both of them in pancake batter through dangerous and ill-timed pancake flipping, as usual. "When did you want to start this?"

"Uh," Brendon says, picking at a chunk of dried pancake batter that's stuck to his arm. He looks slightly bashful. "Maybe after we clean the kitchen. We should definitely clean the kitchen first."

"I can clean the kitchen," Spencer says, drinking directly from the milk carton and then placing it back on the table. Brendon reaches out for it, following suit. Spencer watches his throat as he swallows. Brendon finishes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but he doesn't say anything.

"B?" Spencer prompts, spearing a piece of pancake and shoving it into his mouth. "You still want to do this?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, looking away. "Yeah, no, I do. It's just. Talking about it is weird."

"Okay," Spencer says.

"I never thought I'd—whatever," Brendon says. "I just. It's easier if we just do it and don't talk about it."

"Okay," Spencer says. "Well. I can very casually stay downstairs for the rest of the day, if you want."

"That sounds good," Brendon says awkwardly. "Sure. Okay."

"Or we could say fuck it and do something else," Spencer says. He's been looking forward today with a strange, secret sort of excitement, but whatever. If Brendon's not going to have a good time, then there's no point in trying to force it.

"No, I—" Brendon pauses. He bites his lip. "Today's a good day for it," Brendon says quietly. He chases a piece of pancake around his plate. "I'm sort of—feeling like that. Already. I mean I can control it, obviously. Just. Sometimes I wake up feeling like that's how I want to be."

"Little?" Spencer says, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Brendon says. He's blushing. "I mean, I've never called it that before. But yeah."

"Cool," Spencer says easily. "Then we picked a good day for it." He looks around their kitchen. There's pancake batter spattered all the way over to the sink, and two months ago Spencer might have chalked that up to Brendon being Brendon, but now he thinks he's starting to know better.

"I have a lot of cleaning to do anyway," Spencer says. "Probably going to take me all morning. Maybe into the afternoon. I'm pretty sure no one's cleaned that fridge since we bought it. Or mopped the kitchen floor."

"You don't have to—" Brendon frowns. "I'm going to feel bad if this turns into 'Brendon fucks around and Spencer does all the chores' time," he says. "You don't have to clean. You can just watch TV, or we can do this another day, or—"

"Or I could put some music on and clean out the fridge," Spencer says. "Which needs to get done anyway. And then when you're back again, I can make you do all the laundry to make up for it."

"I will never understand why you hate laundry," Brendon says, his features smoothing out again. "It's the laziest chore ever. You just dump it in and hit the switch and then you don't have to think about it for an hour."

"But you do," Spencer says, falling easily into an argument that's at least six years old between them. "Because that whole time you're thinking, 'fuck, is the laundry done yet? fuck, it's going to be done in twenty minutes. What can I do for the next twenty minutes?'"

"Only if you're a weirdo who has a complex about doing laundry," Brendon says, standing up to dump his plate in the sink. He pauses afterwards, his back to Spencer.

"So you really don't mind if I—" Brendon says, and then falls silent.

"Nope," Spencer says, from the kitchen table. He concentrates very hard on his breakfast, and tells himself that if he gets up now and tries to reassure Brendon, he's only going to make this whole thing harder. He needs to act like this is perfectly normal, like it's no big deal that Brendon's about to go play upstairs. He needs to act like his heart isn't thumping in his chest.

"Okay," Brendon says, after a moment. "Then I'm going to just go and. Uh. Do that."

"Yup," Spencer says. He waits until he hears Brendon's footsteps going up the stairs, and then he lets out a deep breath and looks down at Bogart, who wandered in as Brendon walked out. Bogart looks up at him for a moment, and then proceeds to perch on Spencer's foot in hopes of a shred of pancake or two.

"I hope I'm doing this right," Spencer tells him, very seriously. "I really hope I'm not fucking this up."

Bogart wags his tail.

"You're a dog," Spencer says, after a moment. "Why am I even talking to you about this?"

Bogart cocks his head. He licks the back of Spencer's hand thoughtfully.

"Oh fine," Spencer says, and tears off a piece of non-syruped pancake for Bogart to nibble on. If Brendon were here, he'd be yelling at Spencer for feeding his dog from the table. But Brendon isn't here; he's upstairs preparing to be little. Spencer feels weird, jumpy and excited inside. There are only so many coping mechanisms Spencer has for this sort of thing. As the others are weed, video games, and alcohol, respectively, he's going to have to settle for feeding Bogart scraps of pancake and watching him wiggle in excitement.

"You gonna help me clean the kitchen?" Spencer says, instead of everything that's going through his head. "Yeah you are. We're going to put some Queen on and you're going to help daddy clean the kitchen." He scratches Bogart behind the ears, and wonders if it's weird that he refers to himself as Bogart's daddy. Whatever. Brendon does it too, so it can't be that weird. Owning pets just makes you weird in general.

"Let's do this, little bro," Spencer says, and stands up to drop his plate in the sink, Bogart close at his heels. "I'll wipe and you lick, okay? Unless it looks like it's alive. Or moving. Then don't lick it." He pauses. "Actually maybe you shouldn't lick anything in the fridge in general. Maybe you should go play in the backyard." Bogart yips, bouncing in place a little.

"Yeah, okay," Spencer says, and goes to let the dog out and pick up the cleaning supplies from the hall closet.

—

The problem with cleaning while high is that Spencer tends to get tunnel vision, and he also tends to zone out and clean the same spot over and over. He'd only smoked up a little bit, just enough to keep things entertaining, but when he surfaces a few hours later and steps back from his handiwork he realizes he's only cleaned on side of the fridge.

"Goddammit," Spencer says, to everyone and no one in particular. Their countertops are piled with food, old bottles of salad dressing and ketchup packets and unrecognizable leftovers and unopened jars of homemade preserves that Brendon's mother always sends and that Spencer is still afraid to touch. They don't talk about the Hot Pepper Jelly incident, but Spencer is now very careful about what he spreads on his toast in the morning.

His stomach rumbles as he's looking around the kitchen, and Spencer groans. "Fine," he tells the universe, grabbing the shit that needs to be refrigerated and shoving it back into the clean half of the fridge so he can make some space on the counter. "Sandwiches first." It's not that he's forgotten about Brendon, about what they're doing, but he's distracted and he's kind of high so it doesn't occur to him until after he's shouted "Brendon! Sandwiches, bro!" towards the stairs that maybe that wasn't the best idea.

"Shit," Spencer says. He looks down at the butter knife in his hand, and wonders whether or not to shout something along the lines of _ignore me! just kidding!_ The house is silent around him. Spencer bites his lip.

"Brendon?" Spencer calls out, staring to worry. Shit, he didn't mean to mess up Brendon's afternoon like that. He is an asshole. A dumb, stoned asshole. "I'm sorry," Spencer calls out, putting the knife down on the kitchen counter and walking out of the kitchen toward the base of the stairs. Maybe Brendon can't hear him at all. Which would be good, because then it would mean Spencer hasn't screwed up, but just in case Spencer feels like he needs to check.

"Brendon, I—hey," Spencer says in surprise, once he can see the top of the stairs. Brendon's sitting on the top step, legs tucked up to his chest and chin resting on his knees. It's an odd position, one that Spencer's never seen Brendon use before, but Brendon doesn't seem upset. He's biting one lip and smiling shyly at Spencer, ducking his head like he's not sure if he's supposed to be there at all.

"Hey," Spencer says, softer this time around. His heart is clenching in his chest because he _remembers_ this Brendon, if only from a split-second interaction. There's an ease to Brendon's shoulders that's never there when he's big, a looseness to his limbs. There's a sweetness to his smile that makes Spencer want to run up the stairs and swing Brendon into his arms, just to see if he can make Brendon giggle. Spencer tries to focus.

"Hi," Brendon says. He's playing with the edge of one sock, wiggling his toes and looking away from Spencer as he talks. "You said my name."

"I did," Spencer says hesitantly. "I didn't mean to. It was an accident. I'm sorry."

"S'ok," Brendon says. "I don't mind." He pokes at his toes again. "I want sandwiches. M'hungry. Will you make me a sandwich?"

"I—" Spencer pauses. He doesn't know if he's supposed to say _yes_ , but at the same time, he can't imagine saying _no_. He doesn't think he could ever say no to Brendon when he's little. "Yeah, sure," Spencer says, and there's something soft blooming in his chest as Brendon ducks his head and smiles. "What do you want? Turkey?"

"Ham," Brendon says firmly. "Ham and cheese. No crusts."

"No crusts," Spencer agrees. "You want to come in the kitchen and help me make it?"

"Yes please," Brendon says. "Want to help. Can I hold the knife?" He hugs his legs close to his chest, peering down at Spencer with wide, hopeful eyes. "I want to hold the knife. That's helping.

"Maybe when you're older," Spencer says. "Knives are for big boys. And I don't think you're a big boy just yet." He ignores the part of his brain that's going _what the fuck?_ over this entire conversation, focusing instead on Brendon and on the way his cheeks flush as he looks down again.

"No," Brendon says quietly. "Still little."

"That's what I thought," Spencer says, and takes a deep breath, holding out his hand. "But that's okay. I can hold the knife for you and you can pick out all the toppings and then I'll cut the crusts off. Sound good?"

"Kay," Brendon says. He curls his fingers into Spencer's, clumsy and sweet, and lets Spencer pull him upright.

"I got a new firetruck," Brendon says, as they're walking into the kitchen. He sounds embarrassed but hopeful, still avoiding eye contact.

"Did you," Spencer says easily. His chest feels warm. "Does it make noises? Like a real firetruck?"

"It goes vroom," Brendon tells him earnestly. "And then it lights up. You want to come see?"

"After lunch," Spencer tells him, sitting Brendon down at the kitchen table and bringing the sandwich fixings over so that Brendon can see what he's doing. "Lunch first, and then firetrucks."

"Firetrucks, then lunch, then firetrucks again?" Brendon says.

"Lunch _first_ ," Spencer repeats, and he thinks Brendon might be hiding a grin. "Little boys need to eat lunch so they can grow up to be big boys who use knives and drive real fire trucks."

"Don't wanna drive a real fire truck," Brendon says, wrinkling his nose. "They're _loud._ "

"They are," Spencer says. "Mayo first, or mustard?"

"Mayo," Brendon says. "Don't want to be a fireman when I grow up. Want to be an astronaut."

"Brendon Urie, Space Explorer," Spencer says, and Brendon giggles. "I think you'd be a great astronaut," Spencer says, and Brendon nods. "I will be," Brendon says, picking at the lettuce distractedly. "And. And. And a doctor. And a princess."

"Princes Doctor Astronaut Brendon," Spencer says solemnly, trying to keep a straight face. "I like it."

"Me too," Brendon says, pushing an extra slice of tomato in Spencer's direction as he's piling them on.

 _This is weird,_ Spencer thinks to himself, as he finishes Brendon's sandwich and starts making his own. Or maybe weird isn't the right word. This is—different. It's not quite like Spencer thought it would be, but Spencer isn't sure that's a bad thing. There's something very easy about responding to Brendon when he's like this. It makes Spencer feel warm inside.

"You forgot the crusts," Brendon says, poking at Spencer's sleeve. "They're still on."

"Oh," Spencer says. "Oh, look at that, I did." He arranges Brendon's sandwich on a plate, and then he cuts the crusts off, splitting the sandwich into triangles. Brendon beams at him.

"Triangles are my favorite," Brendon says, but makes no move to take his sandwich off the plate.

"Mine too," Spencer says. "You don't want your sandwich?"

"Waiting for you to finish yours," Brendon mumbles. "Can we—can we eat upstairs? S'where I left my firetruck."

"Oh," Spencer says. "You want me to eat with you? You don't mind?" His heart feels light.

"No," Brendon says, tugging on Spencer's sleeve. "But hurry _up_."

"Okay, okay," Spencer says, still laughing as he slides his mess of a sandwich onto a plate. "Okay. Grab your sandwich and let's go upstairs, okay? Hold it tight so it doesn't fall."

"'Kay," Brendon says, and makes his way carefully towards the stairs. Spencer can see how hard he's concentrating, tongue just peeking out of the edge of his mouth, and it's so adorable that Spencer isn't even sure what to feel. _Maybe this **is** weird, _ Spencer thinks, picking up his own sandwich to follow. _But whatever it is, it_ _'_ _s ours._

—

Later on, afterwards, Brendon brings them both a beer. Spencer shuffles up to make room on the couch, and Brendon slides under his arm, now in a fresh t-shirt and pajama pants after his shower. He smells good, and Spencer can't resist leaning down and burying his nose in Brendon's hair, even though he knows it's kind of creepy.

"You're so weird," Brendon says, snickering, but he lets Spencer snuffle at him until Brendon gets bored and starts pawing around for the remote.

"Here," Spencer says, handing Brendon the remote that he was hiding underneath his leg, because he didn't grow up in a family of three kids for nothing. He loves Brendon, though, and Brendon was pretty awesome and pretty brave today, so he thinks Brendon deserves the remote. "You pick."

"You sure?" Brendon asks. "I just might decide we need to watch a whole night of Fraggle Rock reruns. You never know."

Spencer just smiles. "I'm good," he says, and takes a slug of his beer as Brendon grins and turns on the TV.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Communicating with Firetrucks, by fictionalaspect & sunsetmog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156569) by [TheOneCalledEli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneCalledEli/pseuds/TheOneCalledEli)




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